Cornering A Killer
by Edward Carson
Summary: Who killed Mr. Green? Concerned for Anna's welfare and exasperated by Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hughes decides to make her own inquiries. This is set sometime in Season 6 and assumes there has been at least one wedding at Downton Abbey. Parallel to the pursuit of the killer, a little Mr. and Mrs. Carson romance unfolds as well. NO SPOILERS.
1. Chapter 1: The Green Problem

**CORNERING A KILLER**

 **Chapter 1 The Green Problem**

 _But I'm not free. And I never will be while the death of Mr. Green goes unsolved. It's going to hang over me for the rest of my life_.

Anna's words haunted Elsie Carson. The affair of Mr. Green's death had not intruded overtly into their lives for months, but Elsie had eyes, didn't she? The burden wore on Anna. She maintained a veneer of her sunny disposition, always attentive to the joys and concerns of others, smiling coyly at Mr. Bates when she thought no one was looking, and ever-efficient in the performance of her duties. But it was only a veneer. Her troubles showed themselves in the dullness of her complexion, in the sombre note to her characteristic quietness. She was fading away.

She broke her silence on this only rarely and had done so earlier today in the housekeeper's sitting room. Mrs. Carson had been telling of waking up in the early hours of the morning to find little George Crawley in the sitting room of their cottage. It made Elsie wonder about the vigilance of the latest nanny, whose oversight George had escaped. He'd gone on a dawn stroll down the gravel path to the cottages, heading confidently for the one occupied by the Carsons. Mr. Carson had promised to show him how to cast for fish and the boy was eager for his first lesson.

"Gave me a start!" Mrs. Carson said, laughing now. "We took him back and Nanny had the good grace to be sheepish about it. And then it was too late to go back to bed, and Mr. Carson was so relieved that we hadn't locked the door and wasn't it a good thing that the child had found us rather than getting up to some mischief, and on... Needless to say, we lost some sleep over it." She'd thought Anna would be amused by the story, especially by the idea of Mr. Carson debating the implications of this childish adventure at great length. Instead, tears formed in those great sensitive eyes and two of them slid onto her cheeks.

"What is it?" Mrs. Carson asked solicitously, reaching out to take Anna's hand.

"Mr. Bates and I, we've wanted a child for so long, Mrs. Carson," Anna said softly. "But should we even be thinking about such a thing now?"

"And why not?"

"Because it's not over. Mr. Viner, Scotland Yard, _Mr. Green_...it's not over. And it won't be until they've solved the murder. And...I don't think they're really trying. They're still just waiting for some...misstep on my part, so that they can come and get me again."

Mrs. Carson did not think this was quite the case, but she understood how Anna could feel this way. And what could she say to that except to offer a blustering denial that would only exacerbate Anna's despondency. Instead, she put her arms around the younger woman, offering what solace there was to be had in a comforting hug.

But the picture of Anna's misery stayed with her, so that when they retired to their cottage at the end of the day, she did not pay complete attention to Mr. Carson's musings. And once she was changed into her nightclothes, she wrapped her flannel robe about herself and curled into the rocking chair by the sitting room fire instead of getting into bed.

He noticed her inattentiveness, of course. In the evenings, in their cottage, he had become accustomed to being the centre of her world. Perhaps it wouldn't always be so. Perhaps such things wore off as months of marriage turned into years. But he rather hoped the bloom wasn't off the rose quite yet. He fell silent and finished his own nightly routines before returning to her side. The rocker was an awkward piece of furniture. He could not sit beside her in it and approaching it was hazardous if it was in motion. It defeated any effort to offer comfort without posing a danger to the comforter. But he was determined to try.

"What is it, love?" he asked gently, trying not to intrude too abruptly on her quiet meditations. "You've not been yourself for the better part of the day."

Despite her deliberations, she was distracted by him. Here in their own home, he was a different man than he was up at the Abbey . All rigid formality and arm's length propriety for most of the day, he shed the hard shell of his professional position like a man taking off a coat once the door to their cottage was closed and the world of Downton Abbey shut out by it. Then he became a tender, affectionate, and solicitous husband. In her mind she was calling it his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde act. She found his Mr. Hyde persona a little exasperating, as she was confident that a slight thaw in his demeanour wouldn't bring the whole firmament crashing down upon them. But when she recalled the emotional depth of his Dr. Jekyll face, she was more accepting of his behaviour. He did not seem to be able to find any middle ground. And while the formal butler could be vexing, the loving husband was really quite a joy to be around. And he wasn't going to have to live this double life forever.

"I've been thinking about Anna and Mr. Green," she said abruptly.

He grimaced. " _Why_? What an unpleasant preoccupation."

"It is," she agreed. "But the problem of Mr. Green continues to trouble Anna and I'm troubled by that."

Deciding to risk having his toes trod on by the rocker, he stepped to her side and put his hand lightly on her shoulder. "Of course you worry about her, Elsie," he said, an acknowledgment of her particular affection for that young woman. "But the case against her has lapsed. There's not been any movement on it for months."

"No, there hasn't. But that doesn't mean it's disappeared, Charlie. And as far as Anna's concerned, it's left her in limbo. She and Mr. Bates can't really get on with their lives while living under the shadow of that uncertainty."

"Hmm." He didn't like uncertainty. And while it was hardly the same thing, he'd known some uncertainty last autumn as he had contemplated raising the question of marriage with Elsie. His concerns about her had been entirely groundless, but the not-knowing had preyed on his mind. How much worse must this be for the Bateses when the possibility of life imprisonment hung over Anna's head like the sword of Damocles? Mr. Carson did not really think it would come to this, could not really imagine Anna being successfully prosecuted, but he had some capacity for empathy, especially for those things that distressed his wife. There was, however, a practical element to this.

"But there's nothing _you_ can do about it, love," he said quietly.

She had put a hand up to cover his. She loved touching him and regretted that he shied away from even these innocuous gestures when anyone else was present."Come here," she said, getting out of the rocker and leading him by the hand across the room. If he was going to stick by her side like that, then they might as well move to the sofa where he could be comfortable, too. He sat and she curled up beside him, drawing her feet up under her as he put his arm around her.

"I've just been wondering about that. What we could do." She started chewing on her bottom lip, a habit that suggested thoughtful consideration or, sometimes, agitation.

"But what's it got to do with you? This is a criminal matter, after all. The police are dealing with it."

She rolled her eyes. "Not very well."

"I have confidence in British justice." He uttered this declaration in a voice that suggested there was no room for disagreement.

"How can you _say_ that?" she demanded, sitting up abruptly and turning a little so that she could look him more directly in the eye. " _British justice_ sent Mr. Bates to jail for a crime he didn't commit! _British justice_ arrested and imprisoned Anna for a crime _she_ didn't commit! And the sainted Scotland Yard inspector isn't out there turning over new rocks, Charlie! He's just waiting for something to give so that he can re-arrest Anna!" She wasn't quite as convinced as her words suggested that Anna was right about this last point, but as far as she was concerned British justice was on the defensive.

Mr. Carson did not want to argue with her. He never wanted to argue with her which was not, in truth, something that could always be said about her with regard to him. He chose to sidestep the delicate topic and emphasize instead a more practical aspect. "Even so, there's nothing _you_ can do about it," he repeated.

She was silent for a long moment. This, after all, is where he had interrupted her thoughts earlier. "I'm not so sure about that," she said finally. And then she turned an alert gaze on him.

He could see the ideas swirling in her eyes and he shifted just a little as a sense of unease seeped over him. 'What do you mean?" he asked cautiously. His Mrs. Carson was a woman of action and he saw a glint of determination growing there.

"Well," she said slowly, waiting for the specific ideas to coalesce in her head, "we could make our own inquiries."

With some effort, he managed to contain his incredulity. "You are completely out of your depth here, Elsie. The killer is _out there_ somewhere, not here at Downton Abbey. The suspects might be _legion_. After all, we have no idea how many other women Green assaulted, who they might be, or if, perhaps, someone hated him enough to kill him for some _other_ reason." He shook his head. "There's nothing you can do, love." Maybe if he said this often enough, she would accept it.

But she was, if anything, stubborn. And his skepticism fueled her determination. "Well, I think _we_ can," she said boldly, reintroducing the plural pronoun. He was going to play a part in this whether he wanted to or not.

He recognized her resolve for what it was and, this not being a matter that might affect the welfare of Downton Abbey, he surrendered to her will. And as his eyes fell on a book on the side table, a different perspective occurred to him. "Shall we be like characters in a novel by Mrs. Christie then?" he asked, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

She smiled at him, pleased by his compliance and amused by his allusion. He had recently read _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_ by Mrs. Christie, her fifth novel, and Elsie was herself halfway through it. "Who do you want to be then?" she asked, with tongue in cheek. "The funny foreigner or the dim military sidekick?"

He frowned. "I think there was a married couple in one of the others. A better match, I think. So, what exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Holmes?" Now he was mixing allusions, but it didn't matter. She got the point.

"Well, I think there are three lines of inquiry we might pursue," she said immediately.

" _Three_? Good God, but you think fast."

She did and she was proud of it. "We can only work within our own bailiwick, but we can still ask questions that take us beyond it. "

"As in?"

"Well, Sergeant Willis has been privy to the Scotland Yard investigation. So a conversation with him might shed some light. He would know what other suspects there were, or have a list of the women they know Mr. Green assaulted. It would be useful to know whether there are any other question marks on the inspector's list."

Mr. Carson was intrigued, but he was also a little sceptical. "So what do we do? Invite him over for dinner, ply him with alcohol, and take advantage of his inebriation to pump him for the information?"

Mrs. Carson heard the slight note of sarcasm in his voice and chose to ignore it. "Not exactly," she said lightly. " _You_ have him down to the pub of an evening, have a few drinks, and ask the right questions."

" _Me_?"

"Well, do you think he's going to cough up any of the details for me? He's not a very bright man, our Sergeant Willis, but he's a man's man. To him I'm just a little woman who can make a pot of tea and that's about it. You, on the other hand, are a man of importance in the village. You can use your position at Downton to influence him."

"That sounds a bit unethical, Elsie."

"You're asking him questions he can refuse to answer, Charlie. You're not trying to bribe him. Sergeant Willis will defer to you and you don't have to do anything against your nature. Just use your natural authority to squeeze it out of him."

"And when am I supposed to do this? In case you've forgotten, I _work_ in the evening."

She sighed. "I _know_ that. But not every evening. The Granthams are going out for dinner with the Trevelyans next Tuesday. We can spare you then."

"But I'd _rather_ spend the evening with my wife!" he said with some vehemence. They did not get very much time alone together except at the very beginning and end of a day, which gave him little opportunity to play the role of husband that he resolutely ignored during their working hours.

She stared at him with a determined look. "Then work efficiently so that you'll still have time for her." She reached over to stroke his face, smoothing away the expression of dismay there. "I don't give up time with you lightly, Charlie."

"I know," he said. Then he shook his head. "As much as I would like to see Anna proven innocent, it's a dirty business punishing _any_ young woman for such a transgression against her honour."

"Even if she did kill him?" Mrs. Hughes asked, curious to know what he would say.

"Even then," he said heavily, though not without some qualms about flouting formal justice.

She reached over and stroked his face. He had a good heart, this man.

He smiled at her touch. "What's the second thing?"

"Well, we could ask Lady Mary to ask Lord Gillingham if he could make up a list of the places - other country houses, estates - that he'd been with Mr. Green. I don't know why I'm continuing to address him so respectfully, the evil man. Wherever _Green_ has gone, there's a possibility of additional victims. And maybe Scotland Yard hasn't been quite as diligent about uncovering them as they should have been."

"Oh, love," he said with a bit a resigned sigh. "That's like looking for a needle in a haystack. Maybe Lord Gillingham won't remember very many. Or any. Maybe he'll overlook the crucial _one_. Maybe Green was killed by someone with a different motive. And even if you _do_ find some additional suspects, you can't go off investigating them. You have neither the time nor the means."

"I know," she admitted. "I know. But I want to do _something_ , Charlie. And every little bit of information helps."

"And the third thing?"

She took his free hand, flattened it out, and began absently tracing the lines of his palm. "I'm going to make a list of the employees who were here when Mr. Green came to Downton. There's unlikely to have been another victim in the same place. And I don't think that _anyone_ who works here is a killer," she said swiftly, noting the alarm that lit up in his eyes, "but...well, this is something that _is_ within my jurisdiction. So I ought to look into it so that I can check everyone we know off the list."

They sat in silence for a moment as Mrs. Carson reviewed her ideas to make sure that she hadn't left anything out. Only gradually did she become aware of the fact that Mr. Carson was staring at her. She turned toward him with a little smile on her face, just pleased that he was so close by and that he found it within himself to support her in what would probably be a wild goose chase. The look on his face caught her off guard. This hadn't been a romantic conversation, and yet there was that smouldering gaze that spoke to her with an eloquence he never managed with mere words.

"Charlie?" She was not quite certain what was going on in his mind.

"You could be _running_ Scotland Yard," he said emphatically. "And if you _were_ , _this_ case would have been solved long ago." His chest was heaving a bit with the magnitude of his admiration. "You're brilliant," he added.

She didn't think that was entirely so, but she was not about to contradict him on that. And now that she'd established a practical plan to address the problem that had been worrying her half the day, she felt a sense of exhilaration. She leaned over him, gripping the collar of his pyjama shirt in both hands, and kissed him, a long, slow, deliberate effort that prompted him to an enthusiastic response. Wrapping his arms around her, a thought that had become almost a fixture in his brain over the past three months flashed through his mind: _How lovely it is to be married!_

Cornering a Killer / 2015


	2. Chapter 2: Collecting Information

**Soliciting Lady Mary's Assistance**

Lady Mary was sceptical. This sounded like a fool's errand to her. If anyone else had proposed it to her she would have sent them packing with a sharp rebuke and a reminder that she had better things to do. And she did have a lot on her plate now that she had assumed the duties of estate manager. She'd thought she'd developed some understanding of the responsibilities that came with running Downton in her apprenticeship with Tom Branson. But watching him do it and doing it herself were entirely different propositions. She hardly had a moment to herself anymore.

But Mrs. Carson presented Lady Mary Crawley with an unfamiliar scenario. They had coexisted in the same great house for almost all of Lady Mary's life, but for all that, their courses did not intersect that much. Their relationship, when they did meet, had always been reserved and rather informally formal. There was no personal element to it and this had satisfied them both. Lady Mary was aware of a faint sense of disapproval toward her on the housekeeper's part, but this was not of any concern. One didn't like everyone. Lady Mary had enough admirers.

This formal neutrality had changed at Christmas with the news that Carson and Mrs. Hughes (as she was before marriage) were engaged. Lady Mary might be indifferent to the housekeeper but she had decidedly warm feelings for Downton's butler, who had presided over the place since before she was born. The announcement had moved Lady Mary to examine her feelings for Carson more seriously than she had ever done - having fallen into the habit of taking him shamelessly for granted - and had come to the conclusion that he was one of the more important people in her life. He stood on the cusp of immediate family, and in her private thoughts she knew that she loved him more than she did her sister Lady Edith, however impolitic it might be to say that aloud. Having come to that revelation, she realized that she should at least revise her approach, and perhaps her feelings as well, where Mrs. Hughes was concerned. If Carson loved her, then she, Mary, ought to make an effort, whether it was reciprocated or not. She owed this to Carson. Opportunities to exercise this particular reorientation were, however, few and far between - she still had little to do with the direct operations of the house and, therefore,little need of conversation with the housekeeper - but now one had appeared. Reining in her dubiousness, Lady Mary tried for a neutral response.

"What do you hope to achieve by tracking Mr. Green's movements, Mrs. Hugh...? I mean, Mrs. Carson. Excuse me. I ought to have it right by now."

Mrs. Carson was not distressed. "I still wonder who they're talking to when I hear someone calling Mrs. Carson, my lady," she said.

She had debated asking Charlie to make this request, knowing that Lady Mary would probably tolerate nonsense from him more easily. But then she decided that as this was her idea, she ought to sell it herself. And over the past few months she'd noticed a slight shift in the way Lady Mary dealt with her. She put it down to the fact that she was now _Mrs. Carson_ and that it was a reflection of Lady Mary's affection Mr. Carson, but she was still testing that hypothesis at every opportunity. As to Lady Mary's question, she decided to be frank.

"I don't know that it will mean anything at all, my lady. Only I think Anna's growing more despondent by the day and I thought to do something to address that. She's convinced Scotland Yard hasn't given up on her and that Inspector Viner is lurking behind the bicycle sheds, biding his time before arresting her again. I don't know how much longer she can take that kind of strain."

Although the housekeeper had not made a convincing argument for the specific task she had raised, Lady Mary found this speech compelling. She, too, had noticed Anna's decline and silently agonized over how to ameliorate it. Nothing had occurred to her, although clearly something had to Mrs. Carson. "What exactly is it you're trying to do, Mrs. ... Carson?"

As silly as it sounded, she was in it now, so what did a more complete explanation matter? "I thought to review what evidence of ... _Mr._ Green's movements and other incidences of his attacks that I could put together, and just see if anything suggested itself to me, my lady. I won't really know if there's anything to find until I find it."

Lady Mary nodded. "I see. Well, I agree with you about Anna anyway. She _is_ in a bad way. And I've not been much impressed with Scotland Yard in this matter either, although I don't know that I expect Anna to be arrested again."

"Well, _she's_ convinced of it, my lady, and just the ... the ongoing irresolution of the affair is a burden. And while it's hardly a good reason to pursue this, I wouldn't mind seeing Mr. Viner taken down a peg or two, either. He may not be waiting to pounce on Anna, as she fears, but he was a highly disagreeable man who thinks far too much of himself." Mrs. Carson could not keep the edge of her dislike for the man out of her voice. He had treated her rudely and with condescension, and she did not take that from anyone.

"I couldn't agree with you more, Mrs. Carson." Lady Mary was increasingly a creature of the modern world where the fact that she was an earl's daughter and co-owner of a large, working estate did not seem to have the social deference purchase it once did and she accepted that. But Mr. Viner had crossed the line, addressing her in the first instance as "miss," then dismissing her determination to secure Anna legal advice, and, finally, contemptuously shrugging off her indignation with that sarcastic rejoinder, _I don't care if you're the Queen of the Upper Nile_. This was not something Lady Mary Crawley was going to forget any time soon. "I, too, should be happy to see that fellow with egg on his face."

That decided it, then. Lady Mary remained sceptical of the possible results of Mrs. Carson's inquiries, but could not object to her undertaking them. Anna was the prime consideration here. The satisfaction at seeing Mr. Viner put down would only be icing on the cake. And, really, Mrs. Carson was not asking much. "I will telephone Lord Gillingham tonight and see how I may further your agenda. Do I take it that you are doing this without Anna's knowledge?"

A look of relief passed over Mrs. Carson's face. "That's right, my lady. Thank you for bringing that up. As we are unlikely to have any success, I don't want in any way to raise her hopes. And thank you for your cooperation, my lady." It was true that Mrs. Carson had never been fond of Lady Mary, and had made more than a few deprecatory remarks about her over the years, always to the horror of Mr. Carson - sometimes to _evoke_ the horror of Mr. Carson - but in this moment her gratitude was sincere.

Lady Mary nodded. "We both want the same thing for Anna, Mrs. Carson." She said the name deliberately this time, glad to have gotten it right. "If there's anything else I can do to ... _further your investigations_ ... please ask." She didn't smile as she said this. However far-fetched the particular idea, the object was one she heartily endorsed.

"Thank you, my lady." Mrs. Carson left the room, much relieved at Lady Mary's positive reception and cooperation. She _was_ a very busy woman these days and this _had_ been a frivolous request, not that it would take much of her time. It seemed, though, that Lady Mary was concerned about Anna and as willing to grasp at straws as Mrs. Carson was to relieve her. And apparently they also shared an antagonism toward Inspector Viner. "Well!," Mrs. Carson declared to herself. "Two _more_ things in common."

 **Preparing for an Evening Out**

And that is how things sat until the following Tuesday, after the family had left for their dinner at the Trevelyans, when Mr. and Mrs. Carson withdrew to their rooms to discuss the evening's strategy. He was resigned to performing his role in the drama, but she was a little discouraged.

"It won't make much difference if we don't have all the parts of the puzzle," she said, a little sullenly. "I've not heard a thing from Lady Mary."

"You're already working on a puzzle for which you've not got most of the pieces," he reminded her. "Missing one more isn't going to make _that_ much difference." That was only the reality of this quixotic quest.

"Really," she said drily.

"And give Lady Mary a chance. It's only been four days."

She looked over at him, not at all surprised by his reflexive rationalization in Lady Mary's favour. She would never understand _why_ he loved Lady Mary so much, although she was thoroughly aware of the reality of that affection and accepted it without question.

He took her silent stare as a further challenge to Lady Mary's reliability. "Perhaps _Lord Gillingham_ is proving uncooperative," he suggested, in a tone which conveyed his distinct lack of enthusiasm for that gentleman. Hadn't he been relieved when Lady Mary had given up on that one! He was drawn from his relief by an awareness that she was staring at him with that guarded look on her face. "What is it?" he asked, a little uneasily.

"I hope you defend me as vigorously as you do her," she said casually.

He frowned, opened his mouth to take issue with her on that, and then, remembering that they were alone together in their private quarters, moved over to her. He slipped his arms around her and smiled down at her. " _You_ never do anything that needs defending, love," he replied softly.

"You're a bit of a charmer, Charlie Carson," she said, sliding her hand across the side of his face and into his hair. "When no one's looking, of course," she added.

He sighed. That battle was only going to end when they left Downton. Or he gave in. Some days he thought he should. "What are we doing up here, then?" he asked, bringing them back to the problem at hand. "Or have I been reprieved from my dull assignment in favour of more...enticing options?"

She laughed aloud and pushed him away a little. "No such luck, Charlie. I brought you up here so you can change your clothes. I thought you might wear your grey suit."

They were not in agreement on this, a situation he usually tried to avoid. "His Lordship and the family may be out for the evening, Elsie, but I _am_ still on duty. And besides, I thought it was the point that I should impress Sergeant Willis with the authority of Downton Abbey. How am I to do that in an ordinary grey suit?"

"Well, you don't want to be seen having a drink in a pub in your formal butler garb, do you? Won't that lower the prestige of the house?" She could play that game at least as well as he could. "And he'll be thrilled just to be in your company. You won't need your white tie to impress him. _Everybody_ in town knows who you are, no matter what you're wearing."

He gave up. He gave up a lot in disputes with her. Sometimes he thought she took advantage of his commitment to her happiness. Or perhaps he was just realizing that a lot of things weren't worth fighting for. Or perhaps she _was_ just right about everything. He changed his clothes.

She adjusted his collar for him and folded a clean handkerchief for his breast pocket. "There now. You are a handsome man, Charlie."

"Yes," he said, "and someday that might get me somewhere with the ladies, so I don't have to spend my free evening in a pub drinking _ale_ with a policeman."

Clearly he was not enthusiastic about this evening, but his wife had an answer to that, too. "Why do you think I came upstairs with you, when I know you're capable of changing your clothes by yourself?"

He looked puzzled, and then surprised. And then she was kissing him and he was wishing he did not have to waste this precious time with Sergeant Willis.

 **Sgt. Willis's Contribution**

"This is a pleasant diversion, Mr. Carson." Sergeant Willis, in civilian dress, raised his glass of ale in salute to his host and drank deeply. He cast his eyes about the pub, trying to look casual, but hoping the other denizens of this smoky refuge glimpsed him sharing a pint with the regal butler of Downton Abbey. Sergeant Willis did not usually socialize with anyone from the Abbey and doing so, especially with the butler, would surely raise his stock in the village.

Mr. Carson was not similarly moved. There were reasons why he did not fraternize with the local constable. The default position on this fact was that they did not occupy the same social stratum. While it was a step up for the policeman to be seen with the butler of Downton Abbey, it was several steps down for the butler of Downton Abbey to be entertaining the local bobby. No doubt Elsie - he always thought of her by her first name, though he actually used it only on the appropriate occasions - would say that he was being a snob. But it was not being a snob to know and observe one's appointed place in the social order. Or, at least - that being the definition of snobbery - there was nothing wrong in doing so. He was more willing to risk his social status, however, than to surrender precious hours with his wife, and it was his resentment at that, rather than any concern over the social implications of this appointment, that occupied his mind and shaped his assessment of the situation before him.

It was necessary to put the man at ease and woo him into easy compliance. A pint of ale, or perhaps two, would establish a foundation. But some sort of camaraderie had to follow that in order to encourage confidences. Mr. Carson might not have the interrogation facilities of a fictional Belgian detective, or an eccentric English sleuth in a deerstalker hat, but he had managed dozens of servants over the years and he knew a thing about extracting information.

And so they talked about cricket which, fortunately, Mr. Carson had an abiding interest in to rival, if not quite surpass that of Sergeant Willis. He endured a great deal of unfounded and ill-considered ribbing about the annual match between the house and the village, and the rather one-sided record of victories on the part of the latter. Mr. Carson had never seen the sergeant take up a bat or ball and thus wondered at the legitimacy of his pride in the village team. But it was not the moment to set the man down on that.

They discussed politics, local, of course. The sergeant knew who the Prime Minister was and what party he represented, but that was the limit of that topic. It was just as well. Mr. Carson was extremely well informed about the local scene and was able to impart a few juicy tidbits as a sort of _quid pro quo_ for the names he was hoping to secure from the other man.

And that quickly degenerated into a general exchange in matters of local gossip. The sergeant was very well informed here and Mr. Carson picked up a number of stories he would enjoy imparting to Mrs. Carson.

And - there was no avoiding it - Sergeant Willis wanted to talk about the wedding. Mr. Carson was not at all comfortable with this. The sergeant was a bachelor who found the fact of the butler and the housekeeper of Downton Abbey wedding _at their ages_ an inspiration. Mr. Carson did not want to be that kind of inspiration. And he found some comments impudent and vulgar, for all their bland nature. And then there was the matter of its social novelty - apparently even the local constabulary knew that it was not common practice for household servants to marry. When the sergeant started to talk about the flowers and how lovely the Crawley daughters had looked, Mr. Carson ran out of patience.

"I've been wondering, Sergeant, about the case of Mr. Green and if there had been any progress in it of late."

The sergeant seemed a little caught off guard by this reversion to official business. "Oh, well, no. I've not heard a thing from Inspector Viner in months, to tell the truth, Mr. Carson. It's in his hands, now, anyway, not mine. I'm...," he chuckled a little, "back to the usual dull pursuits of village life. A drunk and disorderly every once in a while, mischief by the local lads, dispute over a leg of lamb. That's actually quite a funny story," he added, perking up at the prospect of relating an amusing anecdote.

Mr. Carson did not want to hear _any_ anecdotes involving cuts of meat. He held up a hand to forestall the story. "If you wouldn't mind, Sergeant, could we just go back to the Green ... case, again for a moment. It's only that when Inspector Viner was down here last autumn, he said that the fellow in question had assaulted a number of young women."

It didn't please Sergeant Willis to have such a good tale derailed, but he was eager to please Mr. Carson. "Yes, that's right. A nasty piece of work, if you ask me."

"Yes," Mr. Carson said hastily. "Were they...women from nearby? Or did Mr. Green wander the English countryside looking for victims?"

The sergeant had to give this a little thought. "Well, there were only five others and..." He caught himself. "Not that five isn't a terrible lot of victims for such a heinous act. But there were just the five of them and they were from all over, really. One down near Oxford, one..."

"A Miss...?" Mr. Carson prompted.

But the Sergeant stopped abruptly. "Oh, I don't know that I can part with that information, Mr. Carson. Privileged, you see. A confidential matter between the victims and the police."

Mr. Carson gave a deep nod of understanding. "Of course, Sergeant Willis. Naturally I have the greatest respect for the confidentiality of this matter and for your dedication to professionalism." Willis looked relieved. "If only...," Mr. Carson went on, "it was a matter that pertained exclusively to your own jurisdiction. But you know, of course," he included the sergeant in a slightly more exclusive circle of awareness, leaning forward as he did so to convey a certain intimacy of knowledge, "that this is a matter that gravely concerns the family up at the Abbey." Mr. Carson hoped that this rather large generalization could be justified on the basis of Lady Mary's interest. "It isn't just a matter of Mrs. Bates's trials, if you will forgive my use of the term, but rather that we sheltered the man who perpetrated these violations. It is of some significance, then, to know the extent and...specifics of his crimes that perhaps...additional justice may be secured for these unfortunate women, beyond merely the satisfaction of knowing that the perpetrator is no more."

Mr. Carson wasn't certain that _he_ followed his own logic, but Sergeant Willis seemed to be somewhat awed by this convoluted statement, whatever he might have made of it. This prompted Mr. Carson to press his advantage. "And so you were saying, Miss...?"

And once he had the names, carefully taken down and checked twice for accuracy, in his pocket, Mr. Carson's impatience returned. He'd given the man a fair exchange, more than an hour of his valuable company, some choice village and house gossip, and a second pint of ale in the bargain. Could he not now excuse himself and return to the Abbey for what he hoped would be a pleasant evening in his private quarters, where he might be Charlie Carson, husband? But how to extract himself without offending the sergeant!

Sergeant Willis returned to the wedding, curious about the fact that Lord Grantham had stood as best man. This was, apparently, a subject of much discussion in the village and had added greatly to Mr. Carson's prestige. Sunk in a bit of woe over the hopelessness of his predicament, he was startled by the sergeant's abrupt shift in topic.

"Well, and here's your lovely bride, now, Mr. Carson. Her ears must have been ringing."

It was too much to say that he had never been so happy to see her in his life, but his relief was palpable. It was indeed his Elsie, wending her way among the tables, out of uniform as he was, she in that cornflower blue dress she'd bought in London on their wedding trip. He was surprised to see her, but in the moment he lost himself in the beauty of the picture she presented.

The two men scrambled to their feet and as Elsie and the sergeant exchange pleasantries, she cast a casual glance at her husband and raised her eyes in a silent question. He nodded. Her smile broadened.

"I hope you'll excuse me for intruding on your evening, Sergeant Willis, but I've only just secured the evening off and was hoping I could entice my husband into a meal out. We don't get that opportunity too often, you know."

Sergeant Willis was all politeness, his awareness both of the strictures of their social lives at the Abbey and of their fairly recent marriage both good reasons to accept the interruption with good grace. He urged Mr. Carson to join his wife and took his own glass to the bar to finish it off in the company of the pub keeper. He was well satisfied with his evening, though he would have enjoyed a longer gossip with Downton Abbey's butler. Mr. Carson was a fountain of information and Sergeant Willis had enjoyed the confidences.

 **Dinner and ...**

They moved to a table by the window, placed their orders for Cornish pasties with extra mashed on the side - neither of them being daring in their choices of food - and sat for a moment in quiet contemplation of that most appealing of luxuries, time together.

"Happy to see me?" she asked pertly, as if she didn't know he was grateful on two counts, for the pleasure of seeing her and seeing the back of Sergeant Willis.

"Am I!" he said, rolling his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Rescuing you, what else?" she replied, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I figured you'd have worked your magic within a hour and why lose more of the evening together when we didn't have to. So you were successful?" She already knew this, but verbal confirmation would set her mind to rest.

"Yes," he said, putting his hand into his coat pocket. "Would you like to see the list?"

"No," she said airily. "It's enough that you've got it. We won't solve the mystery tonight."

He was pleased by this. So they wouldn't have to discuss that disagreeable matter. "Was it your plan all along to meet me here tonight, Elsie?"

Here in this setting away from the Abbey, her name rolled off his tongue with a practiced ease. It was as if they were just a regular couple. "I certainly did, Charlie. Why do you think I insisted on your grey suit? I'm quite fond of the butler of Downton Abbey, but it's nice to get away from him once in a while."

He frowned in mock sternness."Do you mean to tell me, Elsie Carson, that you imperiled the integrity of _my_ mission for your own selfish interests?"

"I did." And she didn't look sorry about it at all.

"That hardly seems like an approach _M. Hercules Poirot_ would endorse," he said, giving the name of Christie's Belgian detective a serious effort at proper French pronunciation.

Elsie frowned. "I agree. He strikes me as a rather ruthless little man. I wonder that she chose a foreigner as her hero. You'd think a woman would write about a woman, an English woman, perhaps from a picturesque little village like ours." She shook her head. "But anyway, you got the information and we're here now, enjoying a meal together as Mr. and Mrs. Charlie Carson, away from Downton Abbey for a change. And it's nice to be out on our own." And to hear him use her name when there were other people around to hear it.

"It is." And he reached across the table for her hand. "I've been remiss, love. I haven't told you yet how beautiful you are, even though I could hardly think for drowning in your beauty when I saw you crossing the floor."

As was always the case when he allowed himself to think of his love for her, his eyes became deep wells of swirling emotion that unsteadied her with their depths. He spoke of drowning when he looked at her, but she felt her legs sweeping from under her as she contemplated those powerful currents. She hoped he knew that she loved him that much in return, even though she did not have the capacity to express the feeling anywhere near as eloquently.

"I thought we might have a bite to eat," she began casually, "and then take a leisurely walk back to the Abbey and ... perhaps retire early for the night. And..." She smiled at him.

"And...," he echoed, tightening his grip on her hand. "Yes," he said, his smouldering gaze giving her a warm feeling even as it sent a pleasant chill up her spine. "I'd like that."


	3. Chapter 3: The Odd Thing

**The Third Piece of the Puzzle**

The next morning Mr. Carson's Mr. Hyde persona was more pronounced than ever. Mrs. Carson had hoped for more but, being a realist, had expected no less. It was a relief to withdraw to her own sitting room so she didn't have to pretend to ignore his behaviour and could get on with the work of the day.

She had hardly opened the monthly accounts ledger when a knock at the door drew her attention and she looked up to find Lady Mary standing there, clasping something in her hands.

Well, _this_ was a welcome sight. "My lady."

"Good morning, Mrs. Carson." Lady Mary said this very smoothly, having practised as she came down the stairs. She closed the door behind her and moved across the room, holding out the hand that held, now that Mrs. Carson could see it more clearly, a small book. "This came in the morning post from Lord Gillingham," she added, as Mrs. Carson took it from her. "If information was what you were looking for, Mrs. Carson, then you're in luck. The insidious valet kept a meticulous account of Lord Gillingham's comings and goings for the more than three years of their association. It's about as complete as you can get, although what use you will make of it I hardly know."

The surprise of Lady Mary's abrupt appearance was nothing to the sudden cascade of factual riches contained in the small volume. Fanning the pages and noting in passing the dozens of entries, Mrs. Carson felt rather daunted. "Me either, my lady," she murmured. Another aspect suddenly struck her and she looked up at Lady Mary in puzzlement. "Why didn't Scotland Yard take this, my lady?" She wondered at this oversight, if oversight it was.

"Apparently, the valet ...," Lady Mary was determined not to show the man the respect of using his name, "...was quite an organized fellow. He kept duplicate diaries of this information, one for his master and one for his own use. Lord Gillingham explained this in the note he sent me accompanying this material. Scotland Yard has the other copy."

"Ah." Well, that made sense and was a little more reassuring about the effectiveness of the police. "I thank you for this, my lady. And for delivering it yourself so promptly. I'd have come upstairs for it if you'd rung."

Lady Mary shrugged dismissively. "I've got business in the kitchen as well. My appointments are going to keep me on the road all day today, and Mrs. Patmore - or perhaps Daisy - is packing me a _lunch_." The idea of such a thing as a packed lunch was clearly a bit of a novelty for her. She turned toward the door. "All this running around. I may have to learn how to drive a car. It seems a bit of an extravagance these days to have a man accompanying me solely for the purpose of getting me from one place to another."

This revolutionary utterance regarding the superfluity of the chauffeur was hardly out of her mouth when the door swung open and Mr. Carson came in. Focusing on a paper in his hand, he did not look up until he was halfway through his sentence. "Mrs. Carson, there is some kind of discrepancy in the inventory that I..." He broke off when he realized that Mrs. Carson was not alone. His whole demeanour shifted from business-like formality to genial sociability, his serious expression fading into a pleasant smile. "Lady Mary!"

Lady Mary favoured him with one of her sweet smiles, the genuine kind, not the mask she employed for appearance's sake, but not before flashing Mrs. Carson a look of mingled bewilderment and disbelief, prompted by the way Mr. Carson had addressed his wife. Mrs. Carson acknowledged this with a resigned shrug and a cursory eye roll.

"You were saying, Charlie?" Mrs. Carson looked to her husband with innocent politeness.

Lady Mary's smile tightened a little so as not to react to this provocation and, more, to the irritated look that flashed across Mr. Carson's face at it. "Good morning, Carson," she said evenly, regaining her composure. "I was just delivering something to _Mrs. Carson_ ," - she spoke the name with deliberation, - "and now I must be going." She slipped away.

He moved to let Lady Mary by and then levelled a slightly exasperated look at his wife. She stared right back at him with a disingenuous expression on her face. Trying to determine how exactly he should respond to this challenge, his eyes fell on the book she was holding, and he was distracted. Closing the door firmly behind him, he gestured at it. "Might that be something to do with Lord Gillingham?" he asked, smiling smugly.

He'd made a good recovery, she had to give that to him. If she were an intemperate sort of person, she might have flung it at him. But she didn't rise to provocation as easily as he did, and so she smiled in return. "It is." Her good humour faded, however, as she fanned the pages once more and saw again the volume of information contained there.

"What is it?" He noticed the cloud descend on her and was immediately responsive, moving to her side.

She looked up at him, shrugging. "Lord Gillingham has had a _very_ active social life. There's a lot of information here, Charlie." This time there was no message imbedded in the use of his name. She just said it. "You were right in your needle in the haystack observation."

"So?"

She raised her eyes to his. "So...so what do I think I'm doing anyway?"

Her slightly despairing tone touched him, as any discomfort or dispiritedness she felt always did.

He reached out to her, enclosing both her hands in one of his. "Don't be discouraged just yet, love."

He shocked himself more than he did her. "I mean..." His eyes went round with alarm at his slip and his eyes darted immediately to the office door before coming back to hers, still alive with consternation. And then he caught himself and the flash of panic faded and he took a deep breath. And he tightened his hand overs hers. "I mean," he said more gently, and his eyes recalled her to the tenderness of the man he was in private, "don't be discouraged just yet, love."

Oh, but she loved him! And in that moment she forgave him for his exasperating behaviour this morning and every morning. She acknowledged this unexpected manifestation of his feelings by keeping her own in check. Instead, she smiled warmly, and withdrew one of her hands from his so that she might give his arm a brief, reassuring squeeze, and then she drew back from him just a little.

"It's a crazy notion," she said flatly, bringing them back to the subject. "I've got three lists of names and place and dates that don't mean anything at all, and they'll never come together in any coherent way."

He nodded his gratitude at her forbearance and understanding, and relaxed. But he did not abandon his desire to bolster her confidence."It's not crazy," he said, and his voice was steady again. "Put it away for the day and then bring all your lists up with us tonight. We can go over them together and see if we can't make something of them."

It wasn't his project and she knew he was not convinced of its value to the actual matter of Mr. Green's death. But he knew it was important to her and that was quite enough to secure his support. For a moment they just stared at each other, and then she tucked the book away into one of the pigeonholes on her desk.

"So what was the problem with the inventory?" she asked.

 **The Odd Thing**

But they couldn't make anything of the evidence they had collected. Not that night or on any of the several nights after that. The daily rounds at Downton Abbey were, as they always had been, quite enough to keep the Carsons occupied from dawn 'til dusk. And with the fewer but no less real demands of the life they were trying to build together around the framework of their working world, there was not a great deal of time available for detective work.

The initial impetus of the investigation remained, however. Anna was slipping more deeply into a state of emotional torpor. While it had as yet no discernible impact on the quality of her work, it was increasingly apparent in the nature of her interactions with those close to her.

"I've been watching Anna," Mr. Carson said, as they were getting into bed one night, a fortnight on from the acquisition of Lord Gillingham's social diary. "And I see what you mean. I've seen dishwater that was brighter than she is."

For a moment, Mrs. Carson wondered if she should warn him off his covert observations lest Anna notice. But the trouble was that Anna was very unlikely to do so. "Mr. Bates is very worried about her," she said instead. "We had a chat this afternoon. He wasn't even asking for help. He just needed to say it out loud to someone, the poor man. There's nothing more difficult than watching someone you love decline, and knowing that there's nothing you can do about it."

He noticed she hadn't fluffed up the pillows the way she usually did if they would be sitting up for a while. "Not reading tonight, then?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so," she said, wriggling down beneath the bedclothes. "I've got too much on my mind to concentrate on that." He was silent for a moment and she glanced up at him. "Why?"

He gestured to the large and rather untidy pile of newspaper clippings on the nightstand on her side of the bed. "You still haven't finished _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_."'*

"So? Nothing's going to change if I don't get it read this week or next."

He squirmed a bit. "It's just that I want to talk about it. It's interesting. There's a bit of a twist at the end and there's been some controversy about it. I thought..."

"Don't tell me any more!" she cried, putting her hands over her ears. "I don't want to know!"

Her silliness made him laugh. "So I can put the lights out then," he assumed, reaching over to do so. In the darkness, he turned on his side and reached for her and she nestled into his arms, her back to his chest, his knees curled under her.

"You didn't tell Mr. Bates about your... project, did you?"

She stiffened in his arms. "Heavens, no! The man's got enough on his mind without burdening him with that nonsense."

"Then nothing's come to you yet."

"You'd be the first to know if it had, Charlie." She twisted around a little and for a few minutes they indulged in some light snogging, which is about all that their demanding work schedule allowed on a regular basis. And then she turned and snuggled into him again and waited for sleep to come. They lay quietly for a while, he relishing the scent of her hair from the head tucked under his chin, and she enjoying the warmth of his body, so much superior to the blankets and socks she had relied upon in the past. She loved being married every bit as much as he did.

"Tell it to me again," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Tell me what you've learned from your pieces of paper," he repeated.

"Now?"

"Now is as good a time as any, don't you think?"

She did not answer and as the silence dragged on, he thought he might have offended her. So he moved his head around hers and slid the tip of his tongue into the hollow behind her ear lobe. This evoked a sharp peal of laughter and a general tensing up of her body, and she slapped him lightly on his ear, which was all she could reach in that moment. "Get away with you, Charlie!" she cried, still laughing. "You know that tickles me!"

He withdrew a bit, but returned to the subject. "Lay the case out for me, love." He'd much rather play, an impulse that still made him slightly uncomfortable, but he felt a higher calling to help her untangle the ongoing source of aggravation over Mr. ... over Lord Gillingham's valet's murder. Like Lady Mary, Mr. Carson did not like to honour the dead man with notice.

"Are you serious?"

"I've asked, haven't I?" Reluctantly he moved away from her and reached out to put the light on again. Somehow he thought this was a conversation that needed to have a light shining on it. "Tell me," he said again, as he turned to face her.

She looked at him over her shoulder, concluded that he _was_ serious, and sat up herself. "All right." And it was clear that she took him at his word, for she fluffed up his pillows before letting him settle back into them, and then she got out of bed to retrieve her papers from the top of the clothes chest by the door. While she was up, he punched her pillows in an effort to bulk them up a bit, but he knew he hadn't done as good a job as she did, which was ridiculous, really, because how complicated was it?

"I've got three lists," she said, snuggling in beside him and holding up the papers. "The first is the one you got from Sergeant Willis, the names of the six women, including Anna, who we know were attacked. According to the sergeant, they were all members of staff and all young women between eighteen and thirty." She appreciated Mr. Carson's growl of disgust. "You got their names, where they were working, and a rough estimate of when the attacks happened." She handed that to him. "Then I made up a list of everyone who was living or working at Downton when ... that man...," she was not about to bring his name into her bedroom, "... was here. That was the easy job. And, finally, I've got quite a long list of where Lord Gillingham travelled with the man. I took the diary and reduced it to two pages, noting the house, the county, and the dates in each case." She glanced at him.

"All right," he said, looking from one page to the others, "these are the basic facts. Have you deduced anything from them yet?"

"Not much," she admitted. "I compared the information about the women to Lord Gillingham's diary and have pinpointed, to within a day or two, when four of the attacks took place. In each case, Lord Gillingham only went to the house once. As I doubt that ... _he_ could have gotten access to any of these places on his own, I think we can assume that his crimes took place over those visits. Of course we know when Anna was assaulted. I can't quite pin down the sixth one. But, then, this is information Scotland Yard would have. In fact, they'll have the exact dates, so I haven't learned much so far."

"What about the sixth one?" This did not really seem like a profitable line of inquiry, but Mr. Carson liked to do things properly, and felt they ought to finish with one type of information before moving on to another.

"It's more complicated," Mrs. Carson said. "They went to Chesley Park, in Cheshire, five times in the two years prior to his death. Lord Gillingham must have a good friend there," she added, as an aside. "But that means I can't pin down when the assault that took place there, against..." she consulted Sergeant Willis's list, "...Leah Close took place. Not that it matters, I suppose. It's not like knowing when an attack took place is going to help me with anything. These other victims have all been cleared. It's only Anna who has no _alibi_ for where she was when he was killed."

"Why is that?"

"What do you mean?"

"She was in London, at Lady Rosamund's house. How was it that _no one_ saw her all morning?"

Mrs. Carson shrugged. "Lady Rosamund doesn't have a large staff. It's just her butler, cook, housekeeper, and two maids. She might have a scullery maid, or a kitchen girl, too, I'm not sure. But there aren't as many people in that house as there are in this one. Lady Mary left to do her errands and Anna was on her own. She says she didn't leave the house. But no one can testify to that fact."

He shook his head. "How ridiculous. I have the impression that I can't tie my shoelaces in this house without a half dozen people noticing, and Mr. Barrow taking mental notes."

She reached over and patted his hand. "Well, you are hard to miss, Charlie."

"All right, what else have we got?"

"Well, nothing, really. I can make the connections between the victims and where ... Lord Gillingham was, but I can't bring anything else together."

He took the list of Lord Gillingham's visits from her and ran his eye down it. "Doddington Hall, they've kept their grip on that one. Were I Lord Grantham, I might look into how they've done it. There might be some useful lessons for Downton. Arley Hall is one _I've_ always wanted to see. The family's got a good reputation as employers. Shugborough may be a fine house, but I understand the society in the neighbourhood is not at all that congenial." He happened to glance up and find her staring at him with her mouth open just a little in amazement.

"What?" He didn't know why he was getting that look.

"How do you know all this?"

It happened only rarely, but sometimes he wondered who she thought he was. "How do you think? I have spent a life in service, Elsie, and I've kept my eyes open. You've got to keep on top of things when you're the butler. You've got to know what is going on at other great houses in order to be certain that you're keeping your own house up to the mark." He rolled his eyes in a rather dramatic gesture of exasperation at having to explain this to her.

"And...how do you do that, exactly?"

"I _talk_ to people," he said. "Other _butlers_ ," he added, as her bewilderment continued. "And valets, sometimes."

"When?"

"All right," he conceded, "I don't have much opportunity to talk to them, exactly. But I've met a few of them, and I've communicated by letter with a number of others, and I've heard about others through the ones I do know. And...good God, Elsie, I've been at this for decades. I know who all the players are."

When she still continued to look dumbfounded, he shook his head in exasperation. "If I were the Foreign Secretary, I'd know who my equivalents were around the world, wouldn't I? It's part of the business. And you know I've had a longstanding interest in the great houses of England. And ...one or two in Scotland," he added a bit lamely.

She gave him a look at that last remark. And then she took Lord Gillingham's list from him and ran her eyes over it once more. "So who's the butler at Chesley Park, then, Mr. Know-it-all?" There was a note of both sarcasm and serious interest in her question.

"Alun Wendover," he replied promptly. "Why?"

"Well, that's the question mark in my sad little sack of connections, isn't it?"

"Do you want me to write to him again?"

Now she stared at him. "No, I don't want you to write to him. What do you mean _again_?"

"Well, it was some ago, now, but you asked me to write to him once."

"I never did, Charlie Carson."

He sighed. "You did, love."

"But I'd never even heard of Chesley Park until this came up!"

"Not so, Elsie. It was a few years back, but you asked me to write to the butler at Chesley Park and ask for the name of the housekeeper there."

She was puzzled. "Why would I want you to do that?"

"Why do you usually write to other housekeepers, love?" Really, he was beginning to think they ought to go to sleep. She was a bit dull tonight, which was not at all like her.

Her perplexed stare gave way to a more thoughtful expression, and she drew the corner of her lower lip between her teeth. "To ask for or to check on a reference," she said absently.

"Precisely."

"And when was that?"

She expected him to respond with a vexed, _How am I supposed to know_? But he didn't. Instead, a shadow passed over his face and his demeanour, which had shifted between exasperated and playful, turned solemn. "Sometime in 1921, I think. They had their troubles at Chesley Park," he said gravely. "I remember because when I heard about it, it brought back our tragedy with Lady Sybil."

The reference to Chesley Park had sobered him, but the recollection of Lady Sybil was like a blow to them both. Mr. Carson had known all of the Crawley girls from birth which gave him, with his abiding interest in all things to do with the family, a special interest in each of them. Lady Mary was his special favourite and had inhibited the development of familiarity with her younger sister, Lady Edith. But Lady Sybil had made her own way, charming everyone in the house with her zest for life and her determination, even as a small girl, to know and love all God's creatures, without regard for their station in life. She had wooed the butler of Downton Abbey and won in his heart a place all her own beside, rather than in competition with, her eldest sister.

The thought of Lady Sybil caught at Mrs. Carson's heartstrings, too. She had never been as personally devoted to the family as Mr. Carson had apparently been from the first day of his employment here, but she, too, had fallen under the youngest Crawley girl's spell. When Lady Mary, as a child, made her way to the butler's pantry for special treats and the undivided attention of the man who presided over the downstairs world, Lady Sybil had visited the housekeeper's sitting room. There she occasionally enjoyed a biscuit and tea, but also often just asked questions, and consequently knew more about the housekeeper's youth in Argyll than anyone else in the house, including Mr. Carson.

Without conscious thought, they each reached for the other, the papers scattering over the blankets, as they held hands for a long moment.

"What happened at Chesley Park?" Mrs. Carson asked finally, not wanting to spend too much time revisiting the pain of Lady Sybil's excruciating last hours, twisted in the fits of eclampsia. It might be too much to say that her death was the fault of that London specialist, Sir Philip Tapsill, but as far as Mrs. Carson was concerned, things might have turned out differently had Dr. Clarkson been given a free hand.

"They lost the elder son, who had only come into his inheritance a year or two earlier." Although they were in their own rooms, and felt secure there from prying eyes and ears attuned to the divulging of secrets, he leaned close to her and whispered in her ear. "Took his own life. A _very_ sad business, that." He shifted back a little. "And then, very shortly thereafter, his mother passed. From a broken heart, they said."

They paused in respectful silence.

"We've all got our burdens to bear," Mrs. Carson said finally.

He nodded soberly.

"Well, I can't remember what I was after exactly, but if I sent a letter, I'll have a copy in my files. That will explain everything, I expect," she said.

"But you won't," he said abruptly.

She gave him a sharp look. "I'll have you know, Charlie, that I keep meticulous staff records. I've got a copy of every letter I've sent and received in all my years as housekeeper."

"I'm sure you do, love," he said easily. "But you never sent the letter."

"Why not?"

"Because Mr. Wendover never replied to mine with the housekeeper's name. It wasn't very professional of him, but what with the upheaval in that house, I can't blame him for the oversight." He said this with genuine sympathy. "I'm not sure I wouldn't have made a like omission in the weeks after Lady Sybil's death."

Mrs. Carson doubted it, but, then reconsidered. As scrupulous as he was in his professional duties, she knew how deeply his love ran.

"I wonder that I never followed up with you," she said. "I'm usually quite diligent in things like that."

He did not disagree, knowing this to be the truth. "Who would you have been checking up on?"

She shrugged. "Search me. I don't remember off the top of my head and as we haven't got my letter of inquiry, I'm not sure how to find out."

"Well, it can't be _that_ difficult to figure out," he said. "You'd only have been doing it for someone who was under consideration for employment. Where's that staff list?"

As he shuffled through the papers, she shook her head. "But if I didn't check the references, I wouldn't have hired the person. So it won't be there."

He found the list and held it up for her perusal nonetheless. Her eyes shifted from the column listing the family, on the left, to the much longer column on the right with the names of the staff in residence during the period of Lord Gillingham's visits to Downton in the company of his valet. She was looking largely to humour him. And then her attention fixed on a name in the middle of the list.

He saw her frozen expression. "Is there something?"

"Just a minute." She let the paper slip from her grasp and stared vacantly across the room, _thinking_. Suddenly a jumble of unconnected thoughts were scrambling around in her brain. If she could only put them together properly. _Someone whose references she hadn't checked because the decision to hire was not her own._

"But ... that's an odd thing."

The tone of her voice unsettled him, and he pushed the bedclothes aside and shifted onto his knees so that he could look into her face. "What is?"

"I don't know how it all fits together just yet. But ... she would have known him, then. She'd have met him there, at Chesley Park. She would have been there at the time of three, possibly four of his visits."

"Who? _Who_?"

His confusion and impatience recalled her to the moment.

"Lord Gillingham visited Chesley Park several times in the summer, fall, and early winter of 1921 and early 1922. Mr. Green...," she forgot that she wasn't speaking his name, "...was there with him, so the evidence of the diary tells us. But...she must have been there, too. But she never gave any indication that she knew him." She looked up at him suddenly. "Charlie, you'll need to dig out the letter you sent to Mr. Wendover, so we can be absolutely sure."

"Sure of what? What are you talking about?"

She shook her head. "I don't even think it's got anything to do with Mr. ... _his_ murder." She'd come back to her right mind on that.

"Do you think you've found another victim?"

"No, I'm sure I haven't. It's just ... such an odd thing."

" _Elsie! Who was there_?"

She looked up into his anxious eyes. "Edna Braithwaite."

 *** AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

According to _Wikipedia_ , _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_ was first published as a 54-part serialization in the _London Evening News_ from July 16 to September 16, 1925. This would make for a _rather large_ pile of newspaper clippings.

 **NOTE ON CHRONOLOGY**

Mr. Fellowes has played fast and loose with historical chronology in Downton Abbey, making it difficult to get the dates right. To the best of my knowledge, based on information gleaned from the series and the summaries of episodes I have found online, Lady Sybil died sometime in 1920, in the middle of Season 3. The Season 3 "Christmas Special" took place in Scotland, maybe in September 1921. Tom's flirtation with Edna Braithwaite, resulting in her sacking occurs then. Six months later, in the spring of 1922, Miss O'Brien leaves and Braithwaite is hired to replace her. Braithwaite is at Downton for only a few months before she is obliged to leave as a result of her attempt to coerce Tom into marriage. The Season 4 Christmas Special has the family in London in high summer for "The Season." Season 5 opens in 1924 with the General Election of 1923, that brought Ramsay MacDonald to power with a Labour government, after the election in December, 1923. Lady Edith has spent the bulk of Season 4, post-house party, lamenting Michael Gregson's disappearance in Germany, her anxiety at its highest during The Season, a remarkable situation as the "Beer Hall Putsch" masterminded and executed badly by Adolf Hitler, and used in Season 5 to explain Gregson's death, occurred in _November_ , 1923, long after he had already disappeared in Germany. All of this means that it is very difficult to get the chronology exactly right for the purposes of this story. But I've done the best job I could. If it seems a bit askew, I think much of the responsibility lies at the door of Baron Fellowes and his deployment of dramatic license.

 **Existing Country Homes referred to above. I chosen them because, according to , these were still family homes in the 1920s.** Sorry for the slight to society in Staffordshire.

Doddington Hall, Lincolnshire

Arley Hall, Cheshire

Shugborough, Staffordshire


	4. Chapter 4: A Long and Sordid Story

**A Long and Sordid Story**

They'd left it there. After all, they did have to get up in the morning, and Mrs. Carson wanted to get it all straight in her head before they discussed it. She promised to explain what she knew - "Which is not very much, because I can't see how these things are connected" - the next night. When she returned from her rounds at mid-morning, checking up on the maids, she found the letter to Mr. Wendover on her desk. She glanced at the date, nodded thoughtfully to herself, and tucked it into a pigeonhole for later.

One of the very nice things about being married was that when they retired for the evening, their time together was not over. Indeed, they might have said, had they put it into words, that it was just about to begin. For years they had lingered on in his office or hers, enjoying a drink, unwinding a little, and reviewing the day. Now those evening hours together stretched into a whole night, in the more intimate retreat of their rooms upstairs. They could shed their formal attire for their comfortable night clothes, and sip their sherry curled together on the sofa, where they might intermingle conversation and consumption with a kiss or two. Or they could forego a chat altogether and go to bed, where even more enjoyable pursuits were permitted, although further conversation was always a possibility.

Tonight, however, the sitting room fire beckoned as the business of detective work demanded serious attention. They agreed that the sherry wouldn't detract from that and so Mr. Carson poured them each a glass before he took his place on the sofa beside his wife, his arm loosely around her, she turned a little, and with her legs drawn up beneath her, so that she could look at him as she spoke.

"Edna Braithwaite," he said, shaking his head a little. "I can't really picture a woman killing Mr. ... that man... though, for all his crimes."

"You can't see a woman killing _anyone_ , Charlie. But the fact of the matter is, women are as capable of murder as men, and I wonder that they don't do it more often, given the provocation men give them. And I'm not saying Edna killed anyone."

He chose to overlook her initial comments. "Then why are we discussing her at all?"

"Well, I'll tell you, then. You'll recall that she came to work for us in the spring of 1921, and that it didn't work out and we dismissed her in September."

"Yes. Something to do with Mr. Branson, as I recall." There was a hint of disapproval in his voice. Five years on from Lady Sybil's death, Mr. Carson still had not entirely come to terms with the former chauffeur's change of status.

"More to do with her aspiring to a life beyond her station than anything to do with him."

" _He_ got away with that."

"Never mind that now." Mrs. Carson was not at all sure she was going to be able to spare Mr. Branson in all this, but they weren't there yet. "Well, then she appeared again, eight months later, claiming to have had some training as a lady's maid _and_ some experience, and was convincing enough to persuade Her Ladyship to hire her over my reservations. When Her Ladyship and I spoke about it, she told me that Edna said she'd worked for an old lady who died, leaving her unemployed again. She must have told me where Edna had worked, because obviously I spoke to you about it and you wrote that letter. Thank you for that, by the way. It corroborates our assumptions so far. It was dated the week Edna was hired."

"How did that happen, anyway?" Mr. Carson asked, reaching over to brush a straying strand of hair from her face. In all the years they had worked together, he couldn't remember ever seeing her even mildly disheveled. It was a small indication of intimacy that they could now be seen at something other than their best with each other. "I mean, why did Her Ladyship do the hiring, rather than working through you?"

"Oh, Lady Rose felt guilty about her mother poaching the traitor O'Brien and was distressed at Her Ladyship being inconvenienced for the period it would take to find a replacement through an ad in _The Lady_. I might have thanked her for her consideration myself, as Anna and I bore the greater burden of inconvenience, if she hadn't come home with Edna Braithwaite."

Mr. Carson was distracted for a moment, thinking of something that had not occurred to him in a long while. "Can you imagine a house with Miss O'Brien _and_ Lady Flintshire in it? It makes Lord Flintshire's radical decision to seek a divorce a lot more understandable." This statement, issued with a palpable degree of distaste at the pairing of those two women, evoked a laugh from his wife. The women in question had few admirers. "Still, what about her references?"

"I'm getting to that. My own cleverness came back on me. The only reference letter Edna produced was one _I_ wrote for her. After all, she _was_ a good worker. We were only getting rid of her because she had designs on Mr. Branson, not because she couldn't clean a house properly. And my _glowing reference_ was enough for Her Ladyship. But there was no letter from the house where she had worked as a lady's maid, which struck me as odd. That's why I wanted to make my own inquiries. But then she came, and Her Ladyship seemed pleased, and things picked up around here, and you didn't get back to me, because Mr. Wendover didn't get back to you. And you'll recall that we were all in a dither in the spring of 1922 because of the great house party."

"We hadn't had a house party like that since before the war," Mr. Carson noted, his voice tinged with sadness. "And even then it was a poor shadow of the old days." These sorts of things still troubled Mr. Carson, but Mrs. Carson was glad to see the end of them, although she was tactful enough not to mention it. "This still seems a long way away from our subject," he went on, "although that is the house party at which the ... transgression ...occurred. Do you think Edna had something to do with it? Some knowledge?"

She could understand his confusion. It was a twisted story. "No. There's a lot more to it than that, I'm afraid. The letter of reference inquiry tells me that I knew Edna had come from Chesley Park, but I didn't know until yesterday that Lord Gillingham had been there, and with him _that man_ , at the same time Edna was there."

"So what?"

"So, she would have met him there, just as she did here. They'd have been in the servants' hall for meals and leisure, and she might even have met him upstairs as they went about their official duties. He was friendly, if in a predatory sort of way, and she was no shrinking violet either. And they were both senior servants, so they'd have been seated close together at the dinner table. And he was there three or four times overlapping the months she was there."

"And?" One of the things he had been liking about Agatha Christie's novels was that they were fairly short. He didn't have to wait very long to find out how the plot unfolded. He'd read many longer books, but murder-mystery stories, he felt, ought to get to the point.

"Calm yourself, Charlie, This is a twisted tale. It's more Emily Bronte than Agatha Christie."

He groaned. He hadn't liked the Bronte sisters' novels. Very murky affairs.

"But she left Chesley Park and came here and then a month or so later, doesn't he arrive for a visit. We sat at the table with them, Charlie. We mingled with them in the servants' hall, saw them together. And yet they gave no sign of having met each other before. Mr. ... _you know who_ ... only met Anna when he got here, and yet it seemed that every time I turned around that weekend, there he was, flirting with her. I noticed it. Mr. Bates noticed it. But Edna, who he knew, he hardly spoke to."

"They were playing Racing Demon and screaming away at it."

"Yes, and that is the only time I saw them together, now that you mention it. But all the maids and Anna, too, were shrieking while they were playing. I can't recall anything out of place there."

"You don't think he assaulted her, do you?" It was bad enough that one woman had been attacked within the walls of Downton Abbey. The idea that a second might have been was not only repulsive, but disgraceful to Mr. Carson.

"No," she said firmly. "Nothing about her changed after that weekend. Not like Anna, anyway."

He flinched. "How dreadful that was," he murmured.

"Yes. And obvious, too. The change in Anna, I mean."

"I'm still not sure what you're driving at, love. Are you suggesting there is some nefarious reason behind the pretence between them that _does_ have something to do with his murder?"

She sighed. "I think there may be a nefarious reason, but I'm not sure it has anything to do with the murder. Still... it troubles me."

He could see that. "Go on, then."

But she did not go on immediately, for they had come to the sticky part. She had never told him about Edna and Mr. Branson, and was wondering if there really was any reason to do so now. But if she were going to untangle the mystery of Edna Braithwaite, then it was difficult to see how she could do so without confiding in him.

"I'm going to tell you something because I think we need to get to the bottom of her story. And I'm not breaking a confidence in doing so, because I never promised to keep it a secret. But, Charlie, I must urge you to _try_ to keep an open mind and not judge too hastily." It was a forlorn hope, really. Mr. Carson did not share her affection for Mr. Branson, and thus was not prepared to extend to him the latitude she exercised toward the younger man.

He hated conversations that included this kind of preamble. "One moment," he said, reluctantly drawing away from her and getting to his feet. "I think I need a refill on the sherry for this."

"What you need is a good stiff whisky," she murmured, under her breath. But she accepted another dollop of sherry herself, and then settled within the curve of his arm once more.

"You may recall that when Edna left, you expressed dismay, and I said I'd tell you the whole sordid story one day, and then you'd be less sorry about her hasty departure."

"And now it's time for the sordid story."

"Yes. But _please_ try to be generous. You see, on her return to Downton Abbey, Edna immediately picked up where she had left off again in her pursuit of Tom Branson." His jaw went slack in anticipated disbelief, and she hurried on. "She concealed her designs much more effectively this time, from _all_ of us. On the weekend of the house party, she saw her opportunity. Mr. Branson was very uncomfortable that weekend, what with the Duchess of Yeovil and all those other upper crust types ..."

"Which is why crossing lines is never a good idea," he interceded.

"And anyway, he was vulnerable."

"Really." He had a feeling he knew where this was going, and he was very unhappy about it.

There was nothing else to do but say it. "Edna took advantage of him. She got him drunk and then... paid a visit to his bedroom, and ..."

He drew away from her, almost as if she were tainted by association. "I cannot begin to express my disgust in words, and you..."

"You seem to be doing all right," she muttered, as he continued.

"...expect me believe Mr. Branson was seduced by a _lady's maid_?"

She wanted to take issue with him on that. What, precisely, made it impossible for a lady's maid to seduce a man? It was a fine situation where she was attributing devious motives to one of the female servants, rather than defending a young woman against unfounded accusations from some wolfish gentleman. That, after all, was how it worked nine times out of ten in the real world. But she'd challenge him on his archaic prejudices later. Right now she wanted to stay with the problem at hand.

"Yes, I do," she said shortly.

"Elsie," he said, in a patronizing tone, "men are not seduced."

"I beg your pardon."

"Men seduce. They aren't the victims or the targets. And as for being _vulnerable_ because of his discomfort in a room full of gentry and nobility, he put himself in that position. He _wanted_ to be there. I'd have thought he'd be accustomed to it by that time, or, more likely, impervious to the disdain around him. And as for Edna's role in this. She _got_ him drunk? Did she have to force the alcohol down his throat?" He expected resistance to this observation. Elsie, he knew, had a partiality toward Mr. Branson, but this seemed to be carrying it a bit too far.

Well, of course, this is exactly why she'd never told him about the incident in the first place. She sighed. "You're putting a bad slant on this and it's not even what concerns us."

He laughed. "I'm afraid _he_ put a bad slant on it, love. But you're right. Why _are_ you telling me this?"

"Because what Edna was after was a way to coerce Tom Branson into marrying her. Every time she saw him for the next couple of days, she made it clear to him that she expected him to marry her if she were pregnant."

"What! This is sordid!"

"Yes. She pressured him to agree and, demonstrating some strength of will, I think, he resisted. But he _was_ at his wit's end about it, and your reaction tells you why, and so he came to me."

"You?"

As if he didn't know that everyone, including him, came to her with their problems. "Yes. And to make a long story short, I searched her room, found evidence that she was practising some form of birth control..."

Another wave of disgust flowed over Mr. Carson's face. Mrs. Carson tried to ignore it. This was yet another topic they would have to debate some other time. No doubt Charlie was of the view that a woman ought to have as many children as God in His infinite mercy saw fit to bless her with, or that her husband ought to exercise forbearance in his demands that she might not enjoy childbirth so frequently. They had not had this conversation, as it had no relevance to their situation. But she did wonder what he thought the upstairs people did, them of their families of two or three offspring. Doubtless he believed honourable manhood was the prevailing practice. Not that she endorsed either Marie Stopes or her radical agenda for _married love._ She and Mr. Carson were as one on that, make no mistake about it. But neither did she attempt to ignore the reality that such things were gaining acceptance in British society and even upstairs at Downton Abbey. Disapproving of them did not make them go away. Again, however, this was not the time.

"...and I bluffed her into acknowledging that she was perpetrating a fraud on Mr. Branson. But the only way I could get her to go in silence was to give her a reference."

"Again."

"Yes, again," she said, with no little exasperation. He was looking at her as if she had had a choice in the matter, as if he would never abandon his high-mindedness to the petty blackmail of a disgruntled employee. She was tempted to remind him of how Jimmy Kent had thwarted his efforts to provide Mr. Barrow with a reference a few years ago. "She was willing to go, but if she hadn't gotten a reference, she was going to spill it all to Her Ladyship."

"And all this to protect Mr. Branson, who had proven himself so unworthy of Lady Sybil!" His disdain was evident.

"Yes," she said emphatically. "And Lady Sybil was dead, and had been for a year and a half at that point. All he was guilty of was bad judgment." This time the look of scepticism on his face was too much for her, and she leaned forward to poke him in the chest. "And don't get all high and mighty with me about Mr. Branson, Charles Carson. You might want to cast your mind back a few years earlier to an incident involving a Turkish gentleman!"

Of course, it was a mistake to bring that up. He bristled. His eyes grew wide with indignation. He went all stiff with outrage at this slur on his beloved Lady Mary. Mrs. Carson watched all this with perplexity. How he could be so hypocritical was something she would never understand.

"Lady Mary," he seethed, " _was_ seduced. Which just proves my earlier point about _men_."

How easily he cast aspersions on his own sex. She shook her head. "Don't insult Lady Mary. She's much too intelligent to allow herself to be seduced, and you know it. And she wasn't forced, either," she added quickly, forestalling his next line of defense. "Any man that went into her bedroom against her will would've been crowned with a candlestick in short order and rued the day he came up against her."

His mouth was hanging open now, his shock complete. Mrs. Carson had no time for such a response. Thinking this the most favourable thing she'd ever said about Lady Mary, she thought he might've been more shocked at that. "Can we get back to the subject?" she said, with some asperity.

He hadn't recovered, but perhaps he did see discretion as the better part here, for he settled on a resentful look, and nodded.

"All right. Well, now I'm into speculation, so bear that in mind. You have to ask yourself _why_ Edna pretended not to know ... _the valet_ ... and kept so aloof from him. This is my explanation: she wanted to entrap Tom Branson so she had ... intimate relations with him...," she put this tactfully for Mr. Carson's benefit. He was quite conversant with marital relations, but he did not like to speak explicitly about such things, even to her, thinking it vulgar to do so, "...to have some grounds for waving the fear of pregnancy in his face. In her post- ... after they had been together, she repeatedly demanded that he commit himself to her, believing that if she could get him to make the promise, he would not go back on it, in the event that she actually _was_ pregnant."

The conversation _was_ uncomfortable for Mr. Carson, but he was trying to focus on her argument, rather than the details. "But ... you said she was taking measures..."

"Yes, and I won't go into that."

"Thank you."

"Had he ever agreed, she would have needed to get pregnant, however, in order to hold him to it."

"And you think she might have had Mr. ... _the valet_ ...in mind as the instrument of that objective."

"As I say, this is rampant speculation on my part. But yes. She needed someone. She knew him from Chesley Park. And she couldn't ask just anyone. For example, if she'd enlisted Jimmy, then he'd have known what she was up to when she turned up married or engaged to Mr. Branson."

"But wouldn't ... the other one also have told the tale on her?"

"Why? I think that like attracts like. She might have recognized him for the opportunist he was. She could have offered him ... the act...," Mr. Carson winced, "...without any strings attached."

The fog was beginning to clear for Mr. Carson. "You don't think, perhaps, that she knew about his assault on Anna, or on the young woman at Chesley Park, and that that later led to some conflict between them?"

"No," Mrs. Carson said dismissively, "or else it would have been her who was dead, not him. And anyway, I don't know that this has anything at all to do with his death."

He rolled his eyes. "Then _why_ are we pursuing this again?"

She frowned thoughtfully and, slipping her hand into his, she gripped him tightly. "Because she behaved in a way that has no reasonable or obvious explanation. It didn't matter to _us_ that she knew him, so why did she disguise that fact? There's _some_ reason there. And, let's face it, it's the only meaningful bit of information we've been able to wring out of the evidence we have. It probably isn't relevant at all. But I want to pursue it."

And then they were back to a problem he had pointed out when she had first raised the idea of an inquiry. " _How_?"

"We have to work with what we've got. And that means we're going to have to look into Edna's time at Chesley Park."

"Would you like me to write to Mr. Wendover again?"

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

She sighed. "Because I don't think he'll know what we want to know, and he probably wouldn't tell you it, even if he did."

"He's the butler, Elsie. He'll know anything we want to know." He spoke with such confidence. She wondered how he could possibly think that after the conversation they'd just had.

"I hate to tell you this, Charlie, but there's quite a lot that gets by the butler. Besides, we're not interested in any official story. We need to know everything there is to know. For that, we need someone who can bluff, and lie, and think quickly on his feet. Someone who has a natural talent for rooting out information and doing so expeditiously. And also someone who won't be telling anyone else what we're up to."

"So, not Molesley, I presume," he said. She gave him a look. He was hard on Molesley. "Did you want to put an advertisement in _The Times_?" Now he was just being sarcastic.

"We don't need to do that. We've got just the kind of person we're looking for here. The problem is going to be persuading him."

"Oh?" He raised a sceptical eyebrow.

There was no way around this. She just stared at him and after a moment understanding descended and he looked crestfallen.

"Couldn't we just hire a private detective?" he asked plaintively.

"Let me rinse out the sherry glasses," she said, taking his from him and rising from the sofa. She thought perhaps he needed a few minutes to make his peace with this. When she came out of the bathroom, he had already retreated to the bedroom. She turned out the lights and followed.

She was a little surprised to see that although he had taken off his robe, he was sitting in his pyjamas on the edge of the bed, oblivious to the chill of the bedroom floor on his feet, staring intently into a dark corner of the room. It made her look, wondering if he'd seen a mouse. When he did not move, even to acknowledge her presence, she went to his side and slid a hand over his shoulders. He was tense. She worked her fingers into the muscles of his neck and he leaned into her appreciatively. Yet another of the advantages of marriage was that a remedy to various physical aches lay so close at hand.

"What is it?" she asked softly, recognizing symptoms of unease. She hoped he wasn't going to launch into a lecture about Mr. Branson's moral laxness.

"I was thinking about Mr. Bates."

"What about him?"

"About what an admirable man he is."

However much Mrs. Carson might agree with that characterization, it was nevertheless a thought out of the blue. "Why?" she asked.

"I was thinking of his response to the ... the crime ... against his wife."

She still was unsure where he was going with this. "What part?"

"Two things, really. The way he responded to Anna so lovingly, and then his...restraint... toward the man who perpetrated the act. He has proved himself a man of great sensitivity and wisdom. I admire that."

This was no less than she thought herself, but it was still odd that he should suddenly be dwelling upon it. She ran her hand through his fine, soft hair, a gesture that gave her great pleasure. "How do you think you would have responded?" she asked, just wondering.

But he only shook his head. "I don't want to think about that."

They got into bed then and he turned off the light. She waited for him to move toward her that she might curl into him as she usually did, her back against him. But he drew her into his arms before she could turn around, and buried his face in her neck, so that she couldn't even kiss him. He seemed distressed. If holding her was the antidote to that, she was more than willing to provide it, slipping one arm around him in his turn and sliding her other hand up the back of his neck to hold him more firmly against her. She didn't know what part of their conversation had driven him to this.

After a while, his grip relaxed and she thought perhaps he had fallen asleep. But then he moved back from her a little and in the darkness, he reached out to stroke her face with a gentleness in that great hand that always surprised her.

"To my wife who had been so wronged, I would respond as an honourable man should, with tenderness and understanding as she recovered, however long that might take, and with the assurance, always, that she was wholly blameless and not diminished by it in my eyes." He said this softly and she was touched by the emotional force behind his words. "As for _him_." His voice hardened suddenly. "I'm not a violent man and I've always been satisfied to leave justice to the laws and the courts, trusting that all would come right in the end. But in two circumstances, I don't think I would have the strength of character to resist baser impulses. Were a man to do such a thing to a woman I loved, it would not be enough for me even to shoot him or put a knife into him. I would want to beat his brains out." There was a cool deliberation in the way he spoke. "Not that that would solve anything," he added, almost as an afterthought.

She snuggled into him a bit. He was selling himself short, she thought, knowing him to have every bit as much forbearance, if not more, than Mr. Bates who, it seemed to her, was less stoic than simmering.

"What's the other circumstance that would drive you to that?"

"If the victim were a child, of course."

Well. She was with him there.


	5. Chapter 5: The Dubious Ally

**The Dubious Ally**

They had to wait until the following night again in order to have a conference.

"I don't think M. Poirot even _works_ in the evening," Mr. Carson grumbled.

"He's retired," Mrs. Carson said. "And that's not true. His little grey cells never stop."

"Well, _mine_ would rather not spend any time thinking about _him_ ," he countered, and she knew he wasn't talking about the fictional detective any more.

"We must work with the tools we have."

"Aren't we moving a bit fast?" Mr. Carson asked, even as he pulled a third chair up to the desk.

"There's no time like the present," Mrs. Carson replied.

"And you're sure this is a good idea?"

She shrugged. "No, I'm not sure. But I think he's our best bet." She wasn't certain, but she thought he muttered, "Then God help us," under his breath.

Mr. Carson poured them each a glass of wine from the carafe he'd brought down the dining room, and they sat down to wait. At length there was a knock at the closed over door and Mr. Barrow appeared.

"Good evening, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Carson." He'd adapted more quickly than most to their change in status, and never made a mistake with her name.

"Come in, Mr. Barrow." It was Mrs. Carson who welcomed him.

Barrow entered the room and, at a gesture from the butler, closed the door behind him. He moved a little warily. The times he had been summoned before the two senior staff members were few enough, but it was never for a good reason. They were hardly going to offer him a commendation on his exemplary work. And yet it was odd that they were enjoying a glass of wine. This was not the right atmosphere for a reprimand. Given the way he knew they felt about him, he wondered if this meant he was about to be sacked.

"Please, sit."

The Carsons were routinely polite in their interactions with their subordinates, so Barrow was not made easy by the continued courtesy. He saw Mrs. Carson glance at her husband and he grimace in return.

"Would you care to join us in a glass of wine, Mr. Barrow." Mr. Carson recited the words as if from a script, making the gesture one of hollow inclusiveness.

Sincere or not, the offer was unprecedented and Barrow was not about to pass up the opportunity to enjoy a fine wine.. "Thank you," he said, and Mr. Carson poured the drink and pushed it across the desk to him. As he picked it up his gaze shifted from one to the other. Whatever they were up to, they seemed to be of two minds about it and Mr. Carson was the reluctant one.

"I won't beat around the bush with you, Mr. Barrow," Mrs. Carson said abruptly. "I have a favour to ask. It's nothing to do with your duties at Downton, but I'm hoping you will oblige me anyway."

That was a relief. His mind turned quickly to other possibilities. "Go on." He sipped the wine. It was a fine vintage. Lord Grantham had made a dent in it at dinner, but the rest of the family had hardly touched it, and now here it was. This was one of the perks of being a butler that Barrow was looking forward to enjoying. Some day. If ever Mr. Carson would retire. Barrow would have thought that might happen sooner, rather than later. After all, the man had been a butler for decades, but he was newly married. He should _want_ to dedicate himself to that more seriously, if only to make up for lost time. But no, the man would still cling to his professional life.

"We are ... looking into some irregularities regarding a former employee here at Downton. Nothing to do with work at all," Mrs. Carson said emphatically, "and doing so requires making some delicate inquiries that we...," she indicated Mr. Carson and herself, "are not in a position to undertake. But you might be." She spoke calmly, in her usual imperturbable tones.

Barrow was intrigued, but he gave nothing away. He noted, almost in passing, that Mrs. Carson was as skilled at dissimulation as he was. The same could not be said for Mr. Carson, of course, who sat there staring at Barrow and making it clear that he thought this was all a very bad idea. This _must_ be a very delicate matter for them to be approaching it so carefully.

"Go on," he said again.

"Naturally this is a confidential matter, Mr. Barrow.

"Naturally," he agreed. Mr. Carson gave him a dark look as he echoed Mrs. Carson's statement.

For a long moment, Mrs. Carson just stared at him, and Barrow maintained eye contact with her. He could see in her eyes a careful calculation in process. She had made up her mind, else he would not be here, but she was just double-checking her figures. Whatever the substance of this reckoning, Barrow had to admit some admiration for the way she operated. Finally, she spoke.

"I will be frank with you, Mr. Barrow, because I must. You may recall a house party we had here at Downton in the spring of 1922. At the time, Edna Braithwaite was serving as Her Ladyship's maid."

Though he gave no indication of it, even these fragments caught Barrow's interest. Was he about to hear the story behind that furtive exchange between the lady's maid and Mr. Branson? He nodded to indicate that he remembered these things.

"Lord Gillingham was one of the houseguests and he was accompanied by his valet, Mr. ... Green who, as you know, subsequently met with misfortune." She spoke the name with some distaste, but this was no moment for moral rectitude.

 _Hmm._ This was an interesting twist. Barrow did not move a muscle.

"It has come to our attention that Miss Braithwaite and Mr. Green were likely acquainted before they met here at Downton, but when they were together here, they gave no indication of a past association. I know you to be a very observant man, Mr. Barrow. Do you remember anything to indicate otherwise?"

It was a deft probe, if only a preliminary one. The flattery was a nice touch. He did not know what she might be getting at, but he saw no need for discretion here. "I saw them speak only once, when they were playing Racing Demon in the servants' hall."

Mrs. Carson smiled. Her confidence in Barrow's skills of observation was not misplaced. "You're certain that's the only time?"

Barrow hesitated for a fraction of a second. There was something else, but until he knew the value of what he held, he was not going to show all his cards. "That's the only time I saw them speaking," he said carefully.

She appeared to accept this. "I'm interested," she had reverted to the singular pronoun, "as to why Miss Braithwaite would have concealed this acquaintance. And I want to find out why she did so. That brings me to you, Mr. Barrow. I would like you to look into this."

He could not have anticipated such a request in a century of guessing. His mind whirred with Mrs. Carson's motivations for this peculiar appeal. When he spoke, however, it was with characteristic reserve. "May I ask to what end this inquiry is directed?"

A severe expression settled on Mr. Carson's face and he glanced at his wife, but her gaze did not waver from Barrow. "I'm not satisfied with Scotland Yard's investigation of Mr. Green's death, Mr. Barrow, and I'm pursuing my own ... research, if you like ... into the matter."

"And you think Edna Braithwaite's got something to do with it? Blimey!" Skilled in the arts of communication combat, Mr. Barrow knew that sometimes it was useful to show a reaction.

"No," she said quickly and firmly, "I do not. And you will not put words to that effect in my mouth, Mr. Barrow." It was almost a reprimand.

"I understand, Mrs. Carson," he said quietly. This was getting more interesting by the minute. And he was all the more impressed with the housekeeper. She had hidden depths. "What is it you want me to do?"

Well. They had come to it now. "I would like you to go to the house Edna worked at before she came to Downton, the place where she would have met Mr. Green. And once there, I'd like you to do what you do best, Mr. Barrow."

He gave her a tight little smile to acknowledge this somewhat backhanded compliment. And then he turned over in his mind what she had said. It was a large undertaking. Playing for time, he posed another question. "What do you want to know, then?"

"Everything."

He moved his head back sharply, as if she'd aimed a blow at him, and he made a sound almost of disbelief. "You don't ask for much," he said sharply, drawing a rather more ominous growl from Mr. Carson at this display of disrespect. He reined himself in again. "I presume," he said slowly, "that your dissatisfaction with Scotland Yard stems from the assumption that Mrs. Bates is ... innocent in this matter?" He knew this was a provocative question and was not at all surprised when another exasperated noise issued from Mr. Carson.

Mrs. Carson held a hand out toward her husband in a quieting gesture to forestall any greater outburst on his part. She did not, however, break eye contact with Barrow. "Yes, Mr. Barrow. Knowing that Anna is innocent of that crime has made me impatient with the police. That said, I am not at all convinced that my concern with Edna has anything to do with it. But I'm going to pursue it anyway. So now I put it to you. Will you help me do so?"

He thought about it. There was something mysterious going on, no question about it, possibly with Edna Braithwaite and certainly with Mrs. Carson. And the intrigue of it drew him, as the dark secrets of the world immediately around him always did. There would be logistical hurdles, of course, and he was curious as to how Mrs. Carson, in this new incarnation as Scotland-Yard-at -Downton, would manage them. But it was Barrow's practice never to do anything for anyone that did not somehow advance his own interests, and so...

"I understand that the fate of Mrs. Bates and of Mr. Bates for that matter are concerns in which you have a particular interest, Mrs. Carson, but they are not ones I share. Why would I want to lend you my assistance?" He spoke in a neutral voice, but he could not stifle every hint of smugness

"How about you do it because I'm telling you to!" Mr. Carson had watched these proceedings unfold with growing misgivings. He had opposed this coalition from her first suggestion of it, in his mind likening it to Great Britain forging an alliance with Communist Russia (or the Soviet Union, as it now styled itself) against a resurgent Germany. It was a despicable prospect that no respectable British statesman could think of entertaining. The dangers, to his way of thinking, far outweighed the dubious benefits.* His attempts to dissuade Elsie of this program had come to naught and now the fruits of this folly were before them. The scoundrel Barrow had the effrontery to play games with them!

"Mr. Carson, please." She spoke quietly but her mild admonition silenced his snarl, and he withdrew, turning his exasperated glare to the wall rather than indulge Mr. Barrow's cheek

She was staring at Barrow again, deep in thought but not at all perturbed. "Anna's never been anything but kind to you, Mr. Barrow. She did not kill Mr. Green and I don't believe you think she did. But the police are fallible and she may yet be arrested again and tried for that crime. I don't want her to go through that, not if I can help it. And you can help her by helping me."

There was an air of dispassion about Mrs. Carson as she spoke, and yet Barrow knew this to be a cleverly constructed facade. Anna had been one of Mrs. Carson's favourites for years. What she had said was true. Anna _had_ always been kind to him. But these things had no purchase with him. Lady Mary's maid was, in Barrow's view, a weak vessel. She was an alarming combination of vulnerability and sensitivity and fragility. Even with motive and opportunity, Barrow did not believe she could have killed Mr. Green. But her whole being repulsed him. She was a victim and he recoiled from this state as if it were catching. It was the reason for his contempt for Molesley as well. Anna might not deserve the treatment she had met at the hands of Scotland Yard, but as far as Barrow was concerned, the police were, in this instance, a necessary predator. Her weakness made her dangerous in the same way that a wounded member threatened the herd or the pack. They were better off leaving her to her fate than risking themselves protecting her.

"Again," he drawled, "I understand your interest, Mrs. Carson, but I do not see how this concerns me."

"You might try doing it out of the goodness of your heart," Mrs. Carson said mildly, at least implying that she thought there was some.

He smiled a little, as if he were trying to be helpful but just couldn't see his way. "I'm afraid that won't do."

"You ungrateful little weasel!" Mr. Carson bellowed, heaving himself to his feet in a rather deliberate effort of physical intimidation.

Barrow was unperturbed, but not incurious. It occured to him that this was what a raging grizzly bear might look like in formal attire.

Mrs. Carson appeared to think there was rather more to this outburst, for she got to her feet as well and this time turned to look at her husband. What she said, however, was a bit of a surprise to both of them.

"Might I ask you to give us a moment, Mr. Carson? Mr. Barrow and I have something to discuss and I think he would prefer we did so in private."

The mildness of her manner and the blandness of her countenance contrasted sharply with the snarl and fury she faced, but they had immediate effect. The grizzly lost his fight and calmed right down. A silent conversation ensued and then Mr. Carson scowled, cast a malevolent glance in Barrow's direction, and left the room without a word.

Mr. Barrow watched him go, wondering what it was like tobe in such thrall to another that you let them order you about in such a manner. He couldn't imagine a situation where he would become the docile creature Mr. Carson had been since Christmas day. It was a bit of a shame, really, to witness such a decline in a man's independence and self-respect.

He glanced back at Mrs. Carson, realizing that her gaze was fixed on him rather forcefully, and he was slightly uneasy under it. She was looking at him with an appraising eye, as if trying to calculate what he was worth, or, perhaps, how much would buy him. He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Barrow was not far off. Mrs. Carson was trying to decide on tactics. She'd thought of almost nothing all day, anticipating his lack of cooperation. In all the years he had worked in this house as a servant, and even in that interlude during the war when he had served as the manager of Downton as a convalescent home, she had never known him to do a kind thing for anyone without an ulterior motive. He may have done so, but she had no evidence of it and she wouldn't believe such a thing without substantiation. The approach most likely to work would be one that deployed the tools with which he was most familiar - blackmail or coercion. She was not without ammunition when it came to Mr. Barrow. He wasn't the only one with a knowledge of the darker secrets of the house. Nor was she too high-minded to employ what she knew. But she doubted that this was, in fact, the best route to take. She wanted Barrow to do a good job. She knew he was fully capable of the task she had in mind for him, but believed he would only exercise his genius in this area if properly motivated. And although fear was a very good spur to action, a willing heart was always more likely to achieve better results.

"Mr. Barrow, I'm asking you to undertake this task as a personal favour to me."

He was puzzled as to why she thought this appeal would have any more effect on him. He put his head to one side and smirked a little to let her know that she still had not answered the unspoken question, _What's in it for me_?

She seemed to understand this and had an answer for it.

"I remember a conversation we had once, Mr. Barrow. It was a cool autumn evening and I'd stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. I was more than a little surprised to find you out there, in the coal yard, in the dark, huddled in the corner. Do you recall the evening I mean?" The lightness of her tone was belied by the deadly intent of her gaze.

As if he could ever forget it. His impudent grin disappeared.

"You were despondent," she persisted, her dispassionate tone striking a dissonant note with the dark story she had to tell.

"Yes, I..." He hoped to cut her off. He did not want to go there for her purpose or any other.

"Do you remember what happened?" she asked, and although her tone was almost gentle, there was a determination there.

"I do," he said, with gritted teeth. It was a memory he had buried and hoped never to see disinterred. But he could hardly blame her for pulling it out. He had overplayed his hand.

" _I_ remember," she said, as if he had denied doing so. "I asked you why you were so distraught and you told me that you dared not confide in me because what you had to say would 'shock and disgust' me. _Shock and disgust_. I believe those were your very words."

They were. He pursed his lips in that pouty look he got when thwarted, but he held his tongue.

"Naturally, I was intrigued," she went on relentlessly. "And as so little in my life has managed to do either of those things, I invited you into my sitting room so that I might experience these novel sensations."

He was determined not to let her see the turmoil she had unleashed within him at this memory. _Of course_ he remembered. His distress had been such that he had not been able to reject her invitation. Although he had been crying quietly when she came upon him the yard, once ensconced in her sitting room, he broke down completely, tears cascading down his face, his body heaving with his sobs. And he had told her everything. That he was ruined because he was being let go without a reference. That Mr. Carson could not give him a reference because Jimmy - _Jimmy!_ \- had threatened to go to the police. Why Jimmy had made this threat. Who and what he, Barrow, really was. And how hard it was to walk that fine line between his true self and the facade he must show to the world. And how desperately lonely that sometimes made him.

If it was not humiliating enough to have confessed all of this to her, worse still was what had happened next. She had comforted him. As he sat there weeping his heart out, she had gotten out of the chair in which she'd been sitting while he unloaded this tale of woe, and come to his side. Then she drew his head against her and held him in silence until he had cried himself out. And he had clung to her as he did so, with the same abandon as a small child would its mother.

His despair over the situation, both of Jimmy's apparent vindictiveness and the practical ramifications of the footman's actions with regard to future employment, had been only part of the agony that gripped him. Another aspect was the overt exposure of his true nature that the incident had forced upon him and the reactions to that revelation. Jimmy's aggressive rejection. Alfred's horrified recoil. Mr. Carson's controlled but frank disgust.

To that point in his life, Barrow had openly admitted his true nature to - or been found out by - very few. His father, an otherwise fairly unobservant man, had discerned it early on and responded brutally. In part to explain their father's behaviour, he had confided in his sister and she didn't speak to him for two months complete, and when she finally acknowledged him again it was only on condition that he promise never to tell their mother. He agreed. Not that it made much difference, as her manner remained frosty and, later, her disinclination to let him anywhere near her children was actually worse than being cut off entirely. Still desperate for acceptance in the wake of his family's rejection, he had confided in one of his best mates, something he later recognized as a desperate bid for acceptance. He'd hoped it would be possible to explain, but he'd gotten a punch in the mouth and lost a friend in the same moment. He had not voluntarily spoken of it again.

The only person not of his nature to have raised it with him was Miss O'Brien, Her Ladyship's maid for more than a decade. O'Brien had a brother "like that" and she was not put off by it. Her attitude was, in fact, the main reason why he had allied with her at Downton. She accepted him. But she was the only one

The wretchedness of his situation in that moment led him to confess to Mrs. Hughes (as she was then), but even as he did so, he was gripped with a kind of terror. O'Brien had been a rarity. Experience had trained him to hope for the patent disgust of Mr. Carson at best, the physical violence of father and one-time friend at worst. There was no room on this spectrum for a more positive reaction.

But the housekeeper had responded to him as a mother to a hurt child, offering him a gentle embrace rather than the back of her hand, and allowed him to cry out his grief and fear and despair. And when he'd collected himself again, after soaking his own handkerchief and three of hers, she had paid him the great compliment of refusing to pity him. She'd busied herself at her desk for a moment while he composed himself, and then turned straight back to the core of his crisis.

"Jimmy has shown himself to have less character than one might have hoped from him," she had said grimly. "But that's no excuse for ruining a man's prospects for employment on such grounds. I'll speak to Mr. Carson about this, Thomas. I can't promise that anything will come of it, but I won't stand by and let this travesty go unremarked."

He'd taken great gulping breaths to restore his equilibrium and nodded at her words.

"And just for the record," she'd added in that cool, professional tone without a nuance of pity, "I'm neither shocked, nor disgusted."

He'd believed her, although he did not take either her actions or her words as an endorsement of his nature. She might accept the fact of it, as she accepted and accommodated any variety of unwelcome complications, but little else. In the moment, however, an absence of shock and disgust - and the genuineness of the physical comfort she had unhesitatingly extended to him - was much more than he could have expected, and he had been grateful.

And then Mr. Bates, of all people, had appeared in his room, pleading a commitment to justice and demanding the tools that he might employ to redress this particular wrong. And in quick succession, Jimmy had withdrawn the charge and Lord Grantham had promoted him to under-butler.

In the back of his mind he had perhaps linked these developments to the episode with Mrs. Hughes but, striving to bury it all, he had not confronted this reality. Now she was drawing him back to those dark days and at least implicitly connecting the dots for him. It was a compelling appeal.

As he pondered these things - with her waiting patiently before him - it occurred to him that he had also to be grateful to her for her discretion. She might or might not have related that unpleasant incident to Mr. Carson, then or more recently, but he thought she had not. And in this moment, she had sent her husband from the room so that he was not party to the resurrection of that fraught memory. She had wielded the recollection as a weapon, but done so with tact. He appreciated that.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, his smugness and impudence vanished. He owed her.

She took his change of heart in stride. "I want you to go to Chesley Park and find out everything you can about Edna Braithwaite. I'm particularly interested in her relationship with Mr. Greene, of course, but I don't want you to restrict your inquiries only to that."

"That's rather vague."

She shrugged. "I think you'll figure it out as you go along."

"What makes you think I can get you what you need?"

Her laughter startled him. "Oh, Mr. Barrow, we both know the answer to that!"

He changed the subject. "Where is Chesley Park and how am I to gain entrance there?"

"It's in Cheshire and I've got a plan," she said immediately. That didn't surprise him. "But it may take a little while to put together. And Mr. Barrow, I doubt you will have more than two or three days."

He gave her his official helpful servant smile. "I always try to do my work as efficiently as possible, Mrs. Carson."

She nodded. "Yes, I know that. I'll let you know when the time comes."

He recognized this as a dismissal and stood up. But then he paused. "Why are you going to all this trouble?"

She looked away for a minute and then her eyes came back to him and they were less guarded than was usually the case. "Anna is very dear to me, Mr. Barrow. And she's troubled. I must do what I can."

 _What's that like?_ he wondered. His hand was on the doorknob when she spoke again.

"And you're wrong about Mr. Carson, Mr. Barrow. That's not weakness. It's trust."

She might think so, but Barrow wasn't convinced. To his surprise, Mr. Carson was not lurking in the passage, but was instead in the housekeeper's sitting room, pacing. Their eyes met briefly as Barrow passed by. He hurried on, not wanting to explain himself.

He needn't have worried. Mr. Carson was not at all interested in speaking to him either. Knowing that the interview was over, Mr. Carson went straight to his pantry. Mrs. Carson was still sitting beside his desk, placidly sipping her wine as if nothing unusual had transpired that evening.

"Well?" he demanded, closing the door behind him.

She looked up at him with a radiant smile. "He'll do it."

Mr. Carson was astonished. "How did you manage it? Did you blackmail him?"

It was a sad comment on Mr. Barrow, really. "No, my love," she said, with a little laugh. "Kindness can be even more effective than coercion, if you know what you're doing."

Mr. Carson just looked at her for a moment. _My wife_ , he told himself, _is such a clever woman_. He reached out to her, gently caressing her face before sliding his hand round the back of her neck and bending over to kiss her.

"My goodness!" she declared, in mock indignation. "Just anyone could walk in on us, Mr. Carson!" That was his line, and they both knew it.

But he just smiled indulgently. "He was the last one to go up. We're quite alone, Mrs. Carson."

She was elated. She'd accomplished what she'd hoped for with Mr. Barrow and now here her usually reticent husband was behaving boldly and sounding almost risque.

'That may be so, my dear, but we've much more pleasant quarters upstairs."

He drew her to her feet and then into his arms for another lingering kiss.

"We'll go up, then, shall we?"

 *** AUTHOR'S NOTE:** If Mr. Carson lives until 1941, he might change his mind. On June 22, 1941, following the invasion of the Soviet Union by Nazi Germany, Prime Minister Winston Churchill offered a formal alliance to the U.S.S.R., a nation he had formerly reviled, defending his position in the House of Commons with the remark, "If Hitler invaded hell, I would make at least a favourable reference to the devil in the House of Commons."


	6. Chapter 6: Sprat to Catch the Mackerel

**CHAPTER 6 The Sprat to Catch the Mackerel**

 **A Spark of Interest**

Barrow was beginning to realize that he'd been underestimating Mrs. Carson for years. Not three weeks later he found himself squeezed into the front seat of a luxurious touring car. Next to him the Viscountess Gillingham's lady's maid and her hat box and the Gillinghams' driver took up more space than Barrow thought necessary. He wondered if the hat box had travelled up front all the way from London and why it couldn't have gone in the boot with everything else. They'd picked him up at the village station in a remarkably well-timed rendezvous with his train down from Yorkshire and then headed for their final destination, the grand house at Chesley Park.

He did wonder how Mrs. Carson had managed it, but he supposed he could put the pieces together. Lady Mary had summoned him to inquire if he wouldn't mind serving as valet to Lord Gillingham for a weekend at a posh country house, that gentleman not having seen fit to replace the late and unlamented Mr. Green. Neither Mr. or Mrs. Carson had been in the room for this interview, but Barrow recognized the guiding hand of the housekeeper nonetheless. At first he thought Lady Mary's cooperation showed Mr. Carson's influence, as the butler and the eldest daughter of the house shared an affection that lent them to each other's service. But it occurred to him that Mrs. Carson's capacity to secure cooperation from even the most reluctant sources - as his own case showed - probably worked even on Lady Mary. Although the real reason for this odd request was not mentioned, Barrow recognized it for Mrs. Carson's plan and agreed to the proposal. And then he packed his bag for Cheshire.

His job was intelligence gathering and his objective to collect anything at all of the history of the elusive Edna Braithwaite and her covert relationship with the dead valet, but it was his practice to gather whatever news, gossip, or knowledge that came to hand and assess its worth later. There was none of this to be had from either the lady's maid or the chauffeur, who remained completely silent, not indicating by word, gesture, or even eye movement that they knew of each other's existence, let alone of his presence or that of their employers behind them. This left Barrow free to listen to the conversation between the Gillinghams and it took him only a few minutes to determine that they were rather tiresome. That did not put him off. Even boring conversation could yield informational gems. In the much more spacious rear seat, the Viscount and Viscountess obliged him in this by bickering almost all the way to Chesley Park.

"So, Lady Mary Crawley snaps her fingers and away we go. Really, Tony, I thought we'd put all that behind us." The Viscountess Gillingham, formerly Mabel Laine-Fox, had an attractive voice, but her tone was not a congenial one.

"So did I," Lord Gillingham muttered, his words suggesting an entirely different meaning. "I've told you," he said, and there was a testy note to his words, "this is a matter of some importance that has absolutely nothing to do with Mary."

"Even though _she_ raised it with you. And even though _I'm_ not allowed to know what it is." Barrow had the feeling they'd been arguing about this since they left London. It sounded like they were on the eleventh round of a boxing match.

Viscount Gillingham sighed. "I will tell you when it is safe to do so, but we haven't reached that point yet."

"So you say." Lady Mabel was not convinced.

"In the meantime, Jonathan is an old friend and we are here for a weekend of relaxation from the cares of life in the City. And it is of the utmost importance that you play along and keep Mary and our true reason for being here a secret."

"Yes, yes," she said tiredly. "Well, at least you got a proper valet out of it. I only regret that it's only for this weekend. You should be looking to taking someone on permanently."

 _Yes_ , Barrow thought, _good idea. Hire me._ Lady Mary had as much as hinted at the fact that a favourable impression here might be useful. And as Mr. Carson didn't look like he was retiring any time soon, Barrow had to be on the look-out. And while they might be boring, the Gillighams had their advantages, among them a life in London.

"You know my view on that," Tony Gillingham said. "I think we should learn to live more simply."

"Oh, Tony. People only say things like that when they don't have the money to do things up right. My fortune has made that possible for you again."

"Yes," her husband said tiredly, "I know."

All things considered, Barrow was glad to see the back of them for a little while when they arrived at Chesley Park.

Money didn't appear to be a problem at the great country house that stood at the end of a long tree-lined avenue in the middle of a great park. _Wouldn't mind a job here_ , Barrow mused, as his eyes fell on the formal reception party awaiting them at the front door.

Chesley Park was, he had gathered from additional information supplied grudgingly by Mr. Carson, the home of Jonathan St. Claire, Lord Bracken, and his wife, Caroline. Lord Bracken was the younger brother, having inherited the estate and the title on the death of his elder brother more than three years earlier. He was not a particularly good-looking man, in Barrow's estimation, a thickset man of medium height who looked like he spent too much time in an office and not much time out walking the estate, although what gentleman did that anymore anyway? He had a a full head of dull brown hair and brows that rivalled Mr. Carson's in thickness. But he was dressed in clothing that had Savile Row written all over them and the high end of it, at that. Barrow took only cursory notice of the man and even less of his wife. His business, he was certain, lay with the staff, not the lord and lady of the manor.

The butler's rigid stance and the crispness and brilliance of his attire had Barrow thinking that Mr. Carson might be losing his edge. The sartorial perfection of the two footmen also caught his eye. As the main party greeted their guests and ambled off to the great hall for refreshments and conversation, Barrow and the lady's maid - whose name he still did not know - attended to the luggage, assisted by the footmen, who rushed forward, under the brittle glare of the butler. That great man - Mr. Wendover (more information from Mr. Carson) - saw that they were about their duties before he followed the family and guests into the house.

 _Best to get right to things_. Barrow reached for one of the larger cases, intending to mark himself out as a helpful visitor, only to be brushed aside by the older of the two footmen. He was as tall as Barrow and about the same age, but powerfully built, and he looked capable of handling all of the luggage himself. His manners, however, were less congenial.

"I'll take that," the man said sharply, almost elbowing Barrow out of the way and grabbing the case. "You get those others," he said peremptorily to the other footman, fixing Barrow with a distasteful glance. So much for trying to be helpful. Barrow gave a tight little smile to the man's back and then turned his attention to the younger man. The fellow must have been in his early twenties, but looked and acted younger still. _Andy's got more poise than this one_ , Barrow mused, taking in the slighter man, who was altogether too jumpy for such a mundane task. Not particularly good-looking either. Well, not everyone could be beautiful.

They both reached for one of the remaining cases and their hands came together over the handle. And this contact shocked them both like a mild electric current. The footman caught his breath and shot a look of wide-eyed alarm at Barrow. So adept at hiding his reactions to anything, Barrow managed to contain the surprise that flashed through him. In that moment of eye contact he thought he saw ... something. He couldn't be sure.

"Christopher!" It was the other footman. "Get a move on!" Christopher hastily grabbed the bag and headed off around the house at a steady trot. "You!" the footman bellowed, and Barrow understood that he was being addressed. "Follow me."

"Cheery sort," he muttered under his breath as he grabbed the smallest of Lord Gillingham's bags and the only one left in the boot. He hadn't noticed the lady's maid and where she'd gotten off to, but he didn't have time to worry about that now. Striding after the footmen, he pondered what had happened in that electric moment. Did _anything_ happen? Well, now he knew at least one thing to look out for.

He caught up to the footmen and followed them through the corridors of the lower reaches of the house to the usual door to the servants' stairs. Of course the layout was different from Downton Abbey, but all these houses had the same facilities, the servants' passages and stairs, dull hidden mirror images of the grander versions in the public eye.

"Come on!"

The older footman was piece of work. Barrow didn't see in the man's grating impatience any resemblance to his own treatment of second footmen past at Downton - like William, for instance, or the hapless Molesley. Here he saw only the effect on Christopher, who jumped at the other's words as if cut by a lash. He wasn't sure yet, but Barrow had a feeling the younger man needed someone to look out for him.

"His Lordship's room?" he asked politely, speaking to Christopher's back as they marched up the stairs. He needed - and wanted - to establish some kind of rapport with the fellow.

"With me!" the other footman responded roughly, turning into a room off the gallery.

 _Not going to be easy._ But Barrow didn't expect things to be easy, even if he _was_ confident of success. Eventually.

"May I introduce myself?" he said briskly, stepping accidentally-on-purpose in front of the older footman as the man, having deposited the bags, turned to go. "I am Mr. Barrow, Lord Gillingham's valet."

The man glared at him. "We _know_ who you are." He stepped around Barrow and left.

Before the other one could slip out, Barrow put an arm in front of him. "Christopher," he said, and the younger man stopped short and gave him another of those wide-eyed looks. Barrow smiled. "I heard _him_ say your name," he said easily, trying to disarm the man. "What's Mr. Cheery's name?"

"Michael." This seemed a bit of information Christopher felt comfortable with.

"Is he always that charming?"

His sarcasm was wasted. Christopher wavered for a moment, as if unsure whether he had to answer to this valet's authority, too, and then, looking alarmed, he ducked under Barrow's arm and was gone.

 **A Fishing Expedition**

There was no opportunity to make inquiries before the servants' tea, but Barrow took the time to orient himself to the house and prepare his approach.

At first glance the servants' hall looked much like the one he'd left that morning. Here at tea time everyone was lined up at their appropriate chairs including, he noted, Lady Mabel's elusive maid. She didn't look at him. He didn't care. He had no business with her. There was an empty space for him near the head of the table and he moved into it and looked around for the butler. They all waited. In silence. Barrow took the opportunity for a preliminary once-over of them. The only one who met his gaze was Michael, the abrasive footman, who wore a belligerent aspect. They were going to have it out at some point, Barrow told himself.

After some minutes Mr. Wendover strode into the room and lingered for a moment at the head of the table. His severe gaze traversed the assembled staff who had all straightened up at his appearance, shoulders back, eyes straight ahead. It was like a general reviewing the troops, Barrow mused. The atmosphere in the room was morose. They behaved, Barrow thought, as if at any moment one of them might be singled out to be shot. The only ones who seemed impervious to this performance were Michael and the man who sat to Barrow's right who, because of his position at the table, Barrow took to be Lord Bracken's valet.

Having completed his inspection, Mr. Wendover sat. The staff scrambled into their seats and a hasty meal began. They didn't even say grace. Barrow noted this only because no such omission ever occurred at Downton Abbey, upstairs or down. Things were certainly different at Downton Abbey. Mr. Carson did not deliberately keep the staff waiting for anything; nor would he have exercised his authority in this petty manner.

"We have two visitors." At Mr. Wendover's words, the clatter of cutlery immediately halted. "This is Barrow, acting valet to Viscount Gillingham, and Miss Spencer, lady's made to Her Ladyship, the Viscountess Gillingham." ***** Apparently that was all he meant to say, and consumption resumed.

The novelty of a new face usually elicited interest at Downton and drew questions or comments. Not so here. The business of eating took precedence as if the staff were concerned their food might arbitrarily be taken from them at any moment. Making headway here might be more difficult than he had thought.

"Acting?" said the man beside Barrow, turning slightly towards him. "What's that mean?"

Barrow half-expected a repressive intervention from the butler, but none came. "I am the under-butler of Downton Abbey," he said politely. "But Viscount Gillingham was temporarily in need of a valet and asked if I might serve him, which I was glad to do."

"Not much need for an under-butler these days," Mr. Wendover said, his tone suggesting that this was a frivolous extravagance on the part of Downton Abbey. "I understand your Mr. Carson has recently been married. To the housekeeper." It did not take a sensitive ear to hear the disdain in his voice. "How is that working?"

"Very well," Barrow said heartily. He did not care in the least about the Carsons' marriage and had noticed no meaningful difference in the way the Abbey operated in the wake of their union. But outsider criticism always got his back up, and so he added, "The atmosphere at Downton is quite pleasant under their stewardship."

Mr. Wendover snorted. "It's not possible to run a great house as it should be run with the distraction of a woman to contend with."

Looking at the housekeeper who sat to Mr. Wendover's right, Barrow doubted she would be of much distraction to anyone. He did not often have the opportunity to see servant life in other great houses, but this first glimpse into the downstairs of Chesley Park fostered a new level of appreciation for his own circumstances. Mr. Carson governed the staff with a firm but light hand. Here the atmosphere was oppressive and Barrow could see that the housekeeper was as downtrodden as the rest. There would be no spirited banter here, no voice of reason to challenge an imperial butler unlike at Downton where Mrs. Hughes had tempered Mr. Carson's excesses long before she became his wife.

"Aren't you a little uneasy working for Viscount Gillingham?" The question came from the valet. He spoke lightly, unaffected by the mood in the room. "Wasn't the last one murdered?"

There was a shocked hiss around the room and the butler turned on the man.

"That's enough, Moore!" he snapped.

The valet ignored him and grinned impudently at Barrow. He was, Barrow thought, someone who had more authority in this place than his specific position allowed for.

This wasn't quite the direction Barrow had wanted to take with his inquiries, but at least they were on a related subject. He would have to guide the conversation into more profitable channels. "That's right," he said coolly. "Mr. Green met a sticky end on a pavement in Piccadilly." As he spoke, he looked casually up and down the table, looking for something, anything and...was rewarded. Seated on the other side of the table next to the first footman was the younger one, Christopher. He started convulsively at Barrow's words, spilling soup from his spoon as he did so. He stared into his bowl, blinking rapidly, nervously, and looking for all the world as if he hoped no one would notice he was there. Barrow filed this away for further investigation.

"We'll have no more discussion of that," Mr. Wendover declared emphatically. Barrow did not feel bound to obey this butler's every command, but for the moment desisted. He'd gotten what he needed from that reference - a place to start. Best to turn to his main concern.

"It's been an uncertain world since the war," he said conversationally. "Used to be you got your job in one of these great houses and you were set for life. But now it's all to and fro and no stability at all. _Or_ loyalty. At Downton we've got housemaids coming and going for all sorts of reasons. One dare not ask why..." He didn't know why he'd put it like that.

"Shut your damned mouth!"

Barrow had been scanning the table, feigning inclusiveness, looking for telling reactions. This innocuous statement had an unsettling effect, he thought, prompting several uneasy glances, especially from the maids at the lower end. But it was the first footman who had erupted and was now staring at Barrow with a face flushed with fury.

"Enough, Michael!" the butler said harshly.

"Really, Michael." This was the smooth and unruffled valet, who fixed the footman with a slightly irritated gaze. "You've forgotten your place. Again."

Michael shot a look of pure hatred at the valet, but swallowed his words. Barrow suspected he'd had a lot of practice with this, and that the antagonism between the men was of long-standing.

"You were saying?" Moore prompted Barrow.

"Only that a Miss Edna Braithwaite worked as a maid for us at Downton for a while, came here for a few months, returned to us, and then moved on again. She's an extreme example, but it shows that the world is changing when even a maid's life can be so volatile."

"Braithwaite was here _only_ briefly," Mr. Wendover said curtly. "And your employers were fools to take her back. She had no experience and was highly unsuitable. And that is quite enough on that subject or any other, Mr. Barrow. We've no interest in the gossip of the Downton servants' hall and the business of Chesley Park is of no concern to you."

"I was only..."

"I will have silence."

 **The First Son of Chesley Park**

"How are things downstairs, Barrow?

Barrow had the impression that this was a perfunctory query on Lord Gillingham's part, a reflex nicety which neither required nor anticipated a substantive response. But it spared him the necessity of raising a delicate subject himself.

"A little tense, my lord," he said frankly. "Chesley Park is _not_ a happy house." He would never have been so forthcoming in response to a like question about Downton. It was never a good idea to draw upstairs attention to downstairs goings-on. But Barrow had no investment in the household at Chesley Park and no interest in the people who lived and worked there beyond his own narrow purposes.

Lord Gillingham paused, staring unseeing across the room for a moment. "That wasn't always the case. There was a time when it was a pleasure to spend time here. But Chesley Park has had its tragedies."

Barrow helped Lord Gillingham out of his vest and pressed on with a dispassionate air that belied his interest. "What happened, my lord?" He spoke quietly, respectfully, but Lord Gillingham looked at him sharply for a few seconds nevertheless. And then relented.

"Lady Mary has asked me to assist you in...whatever it is you're up to here, Barrow. I'm presuming such information would be relevant?"

"I believe so, my lord." He didn't know that it would be relevant. As Mrs. Carson had put it to him, he would recognize what he needed only when he actually encountered it. In the meantime, he was always prepared to gather information. You never knew when it would come in handy.

"I came to Chesley Park many times before the war, Barrow. I went to school with Jonathan St. Claire, the current Lord Bracken, and his elder brother - Arthur St. Clair - I was closer to him of the two. When the war broke out, I went into the navy, and my friend went to the western front. It...damaged him...his war experience. Terrible conditions there, you know. In the trenches."

It took a large measure of Barrow's considerable reserves of self-control not to react to this. He, Barrow, had served _in_ those trenches as a medic and yet it never occurred to Viscount Gillingham that the man before him had done so. "So I understand," he murmured.

"And then he returned to a number of sorrows and strains here at Chesley Park. His fiancee died in the flu epidemic, breaking his heart. Then his father died in a riding accident the next year and the whole burden of the estate fell on his shoulders. It was a brutal blow and the melancholy that had gripped him from the war years deepened."

It was difficult to feel sorry for men whose problems took the form of having to accommodate to a lower level of wealth, but Barrow nodded sympathetically.

"Still, I thought he was beginning to come out of it. They made some financial adjustments with the estate and it seemed Lord Bracken had turned a corner. I had become a regular visitor here after the war and things looked promising."

"But it didn't last?"

"No. Lord Bracken took a sharp turn just around Christmas 1921. I was here for a shooting party at New Year's and he was hardly the same man. Anxious, agitated. There was something on his mind. I had an impression that it might be..." Lord Gillingham paused, as if trying to work something out, and then looked up and met Barrow's dispassionate gaze. "Well, whatever it was...he never said."

Lord Gillingham, Barrow understood, had reached the limits of his ability to confide in his temporary valet. He hung up the vest and tails in the wardrobe and busied himself with folding up His Lordship's tie.

"He killed himself, Barrow." Gillingham said this flatly and, glancing up at him, Barrow saw that the thought of his friend's death still pained Gillingham a great deal. "It isn't a secret," he went on brusquely. "Everyone in this house knows and many beyond it as well. But I would appreciate your discretion in the matter."

"Of course, my lord."

"I can't imagine what possible connection this might have to your pursuits, but there you have it. Lord Bracken's death was a terrible shock to his family, to his friends, to...to anyone who knew him. It was almost as if something had...happened...to prompt him to this action."

Barrow wanted to ask _Like what_? but had the wherewithal to know when to draw the line.

"And it didn't end there. His mother was devastated. She'd lost her husband, then her son. She died shortly thereafter, for no reason, really, except that she lost her will to live."

"Things were different for all of us, after the war, of course," Lord Gillingham mused, almost to himself. "Almost all the great estates were in peril, and Chesley Park was no exception. It's quite hard to imagine if you haven't faced that kind of uncertainty yourself."

Once more Barrow found himself struggling to find a grain of sympathy for this problem. "The family fortunes appear to have taken an upturn, at least," he commented carefully, knowing this to be courting impudence. "The estate seems a prosperous one."

Despite Mr. Wendover's remark about the superfluity of an under-butler, Barrow had noted that the servants' hall had a full complement of live-in staff - at least in post-war terms - and his reconnaissance of the house had not turned up any cut corners. He held his breath, hoping he had not gone too far.

But the cross expression on Tony Gillingham's face was not a product of Barrow's words, at least not directly. "No," he said shortly. "The money problem's been resolved. The current Lord Bracken is something of a financial wizard. He had a condition that kept him out of the war and he took the opportunity to make money." There was, in the Viscount's voice, that aristocratic disdain of the man who made his fortune through his own efforts rather than inheriting it, and yet, Barrow mused, the whole system made it impossible for a younger son to do well otherwise. "His _personal_ fortunes have been in the ascendent every since. His assumption of the title restored the family, although whether he'll keep the house is another story."

He seemed to have gotten lost in his own reveries.

Barrow moved about quietly. Reading cautiously between the lines he discerned a bitter sibling rivalry at Chesley Park, no doubt an additional burden on the already fragile older brother.

"Will that be all, my lord?"

Lord Gillingham started. "It will. Thank you Barrow. Seven-thirty in the morning?"

"Very good, my lord."

 **The First Bite**

Barrow had not had the opportunity to determine which room in the men's quarters Christopher inhabited, but he thought it prudent not to pursue his inquiries in that direction at this hour of the night. It was possible that the footmen shared a room and he wanted neither to confront the disagreeable Michael nor to frighten the easily-spooked younger footman. The latter was his best bet so far with regard to Mr. Green, if not Edna Braithwaite, and he wanted that interview to go as smoothly as possible.

Preoccupied with sifting the complex layers of conflict he had already discerned at Chesley Park, Barrow foolishly let his guard down. Opening the door to the room he had been assigned, he was just thinking that he was glad to have accommodations to himself when a strong hand grabbed him from behind, slammed the door shut, and flung him against it. A muscular arm ramped up under his jaw so hard that he choked for air. As he flailed for breath, he hardly noticed the broad body that crowded his, making it difficult to move.

His first reaction was an instinctual one, a wave of panic sweeping over him. He was blinded by the darkness of the room and pinioned by an unknown assailant at whose hands he was almost certainly going to suffocate. His body tensed and he struggled to break free, a cry for help dying in his strangled throat. And then his rational mind elbowed aside his panic. In a few frantic seconds he calculated the sensory clues before him and realized that he recognized his attacker. And though his position was hardly an enviable one, he understood that his life was not in danger. He relaxed a little.

"You keep your filthy scandal-mongering little innuendoes about my Lord Bracken to yourself, you oily bastard!"

"Michael, isn't it?" Barrow rasped, glad he could manage speech with the other's forearm so dangerously positioned over his windpipe. He felt a slight diminishment in the tension as though Michael was unnerved with this shattering of his anonymity.

Barrow took advantage of the moment. "I didn't say a thing about Lord Bracken." And that was true as far as it went. But clearly Michael thought otherwise.

"You know exactly what I mean!" Michael's snapped. "And if you want to walk out of here in one piece, you'll shut the hell up about my gentleman, God rest his soul." The savagery of the footman's threat almost disappeared as he uttered the last four words.

" _Your_... What?!" Even in these peculiar circumstances, Barrow was startled. Butlers and valets spoke proprietorially about the lords they served, but footman did not usually do so. And what was that other bit? "Do you mean Lord Bracken's older brother?" Usually Barrow did his mental computing silently, but things were moving quickly here.

"I don't bloody mean _His Lordship_ , do I?" Michael snarled. " _He's_ no gentleman." He shoved his forearm more sharply into Barrow's throat at that, as if to drive home his scorn, but he had also lowered his voice as he spoke. Despite the vigour of his feelings with regard to the original Lord Bracken - and his successor - he clearly felt uneasy in voicing his sentiments too loudly.

Suddenly the footman dropped his arm and stepped back. Barrow, not expecting this release, almost fell into him and Michael smoothly caught him by one arm and flung him roughly across the room. Before Barrow could regain his footing, the footman had pulled open the door and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Barrow reached out to the bed frame to steady himself and then dropped down on the narrow mattress, rubbing his bruised throat and trying to catch his breath. He coughed. And then, even before he could breathe evenly again, a smug smile took form on his lips. A colourful phrase Mrs. Patmore had once employed flashed into his mind. He had cast some sprat to catch the mackerel and he had just secured his first bite. Tomorrow, he thought, suddenly looked more promising.

 ***NOTE:** Following the practice indicated in the Season 3 Christmas Special episode and the trip to Duneagle Castle in Scotland, and in the Downton Abbey house party episode (4.1) in Season 4, the visiting valet and lady's maid ought, perhaps, to be Mr. Gillingham and Miss Gillingham, but for sake of the flow of the text I'm taking the more direct, if incorrect, route.


	7. Chapter 7: The Tragedies of Chesley Park

**Chapter 7 The Tragedies of Chesley Park**

 **The Maid's Story**

Barrow's first concern the next morning was to find a moment with Christopher. As intriguing as the human drama at Chesley Park was proving, his objective here was to secure information on Edna Braithwaite and Mr. Green, and the footman was his only promising lead. But that young man clearly wanted nothing to do with him and slipped away after the servants' breakfast before Barrow could exchange so much as a good morning with him.

The mood among the servants had not lightened with the advent of a sunny day, prompting Barrow to the conclusion that grimness _was_ the natural condition in the servants' hall. It was an object lesson - the outward prosperity of Chesley Park did not guarantee domestic tranquillity. It was not, after all, a place where Barrow would like to work.

He wondered why Christopher was so adverse to him. Was it the association with Mr. Green, the mere mention of which had so rattled the footman? Or was it the other thing? Barrow didn't want to leap to conclusions there. He'd spent a lifetime studying and interpreting the signs, and though he believed himself adept at this, he'd made more than a few mistakes. But if he were right about Christopher, what was it that sparked such fear? Was he afraid of his own impulses? Or was he more concerned that Barrow might expose him? As he mounted the stairs to the gallery on his way to prepare Lord Gillingham's clothes, Barrow bristled at the whole problem. It was just damned unfair that people like him had even to think about this.

"Mr. Barrow!"

No matter what state of mind he was in, Barrow's ears were ever attuned to whispers and illicit communications so that the soft voice, emanating from the shadows as he approached Lord Gillingham's dressing room, brought him to a halt.

"Yes?" he responded quietly, looking around and wondering who had spoken. When no one appeared, he glanced over his shoulder, ensuring that the coast was clear.

"I'm alone," he said in a low voice, trying to sound encouraging.

"That'd be enough to get me in trouble." But despite these words, a slight figure stepped into view just behind him. It was one of the junior maids, quite junior as her position at the table had indicated.

Barrow, who had made a keen study of all the faces, recognized her as one of those who had shifted uncomfortably when he'd remarked on the transiency of maids these days. It might have been innocent discomfort, a reflection perhaps of the young woman's own plans to move on and her uneasiness at the stranger's apparent apprehension of her as-yet unstated intent. But clearly this was not the case or she would not now be standing here before him, shifting in trepidation. No. It was more than that. She was trembling.

"What is it?" he asked solicitously. When he wanted to, Barrow could charm a bird out of a tree.

She wanted to speak but speaking out at Chesley Park, as Barrow keenly appreciated, required a major effort.

"It's about Leah!" she blurted. "Only she never had anything to do with Lord Bracken. Nothing at all!"

Barrow took a step toward her, moving slowly. "I'm sorry?" he said, because he didn't understand.

"What you said yesterday, about maids leaving. She didn't leave here on her own account. They made her. After what happened. But it wasn't Lord Bracken did her, no matter what the family says. They blamed his killing himself on that, but it wa'n't right."

There were tears in her eyes and fear in her words. She sounded like Daisy - well, a younger Daisy, anyway - knowing that she knew something she wasn't supposed to and fearing the consequences when it was discovered she did. The tremors and the tears were means to mitigate the wrath she expected to break over her.

Barrow was thinking rapidly. "Go on," he said gently.

"But that's it," she said desperately. "Lord Bracken had nothing to do with what happened. He'd _never_ have beat her or...or..." She had dissolved into horrified sobs now and put a hand over her mouth to stifle them. "But they think that's why he... _shot_...," she whispered the word, "...himself. And they made her go away. He was dead anyway, but she'd been... _and_ she lost her position. It just isn't fair!" She turned on her heel and ran, leaving her final words hanging in the air.

"It bloody well isn't!" Barrow agreed fiercely, certain he grasped the overall injustice even if the details were still foggy.

He stood still for a minute, trying to sift through the details. Clearly she was speaking of the elder son, Arthur St. Claire. Somehow Lord Bracken's suicide had been linked, by the family at least, to a scandal with a maid, a scandal that naturally must be kept under wraps, and so the maid had been dismissed. This made some sense out of the footman's attack the night before. He had interpreted Barrow's offhand allusion to maids leaving as some sort of dig at the late Lord Bracken.

But there was more to it than that. Something _had_ happened. A maid _had_ been assaulted, physically and sexually it seemed. Only, according to this maid, Lord Bracken wasn't involved. The family had employed an unrelated tragedy for their own purposes, perhaps using the more conventional (if unsavoury) story of a sexual escapade gone wrong to cover up for...what? evidence of mental or emotional instability in the line? Something worse? Barrow shook his head in disgust. Some innocent party, usually from among the vulnerable classes, always had to take the fall for these people. So the maid had not only been assaulted, but also maligned as the cause of His Lordship's downfall, deprived of her position, and seen her real attacker go unpunished...

Barrow paused. He was more capable than the next man of putting two and two together. And it occurred to him that he needed to have another conversation with Lord Gillingham. Fortunately, such an opportunity was at hand.

 **Upstairs, Downstairs**

Lord Gillingham seemed in a more cheerful mood this morning, which Barrow hoped could be exploited to advantage. They exchanged cursory niceties and Gillingham even inquired whether Barrow was making any headway with his work at Chesley Park.

"To some extent," he responded noncommittally, but moved into the opening provided. "The downstairs seem to have been quite devoted to the elder Lord Bracken, my lord." This might, he thought, suggest less enthusiasm for the current holder of the title, but Barrow wasn't concerned about potential consequences. "They speak very well of him."

This was a bit of a stab in the dark. Michael was clearly prepared to defend Arthur St. Claire with more than words. And the maid thought it impossible for him to have behaved badly. Had the butler also seemed a little sensitive on the matter of the maids? But beyond this, Barrow had no evidence of what he had said. But he felt that discerning the real character of the dead man had some relevance here.

"They would," Gillingham said warmly. "You know how things can develop between the servants and the children of a great house. And Lord Bracken was a favourite with all of them. Wendover doted on him, practically brought him up." He caught Barrow's eye and smiled. "Rather like Lady Mary and your butler at Downton."

"Mr. Carson," Barrow supplied readily, although he accepted the general point. While Lady Mary had her fierce defender in the butler, Lady Sybil had been loved by everyone downstairs.

"Yes. And then, of course, Hambly was Arthur St. Claire's man before the war. _He_ was so committed that they joined up together. Hambly was his soldier-servant in war, his valet in peace." Gillingham made a bit of a face. " _He's_ had a bit of a comedown since his master's death."

"My lord?" Barrow didn't understand.

Gillingham brushed some nonexistent fluff from the sleeve of his coat. "Hambly was in a difficult position after his Lord Bracken died. Jonathan St. Claire assumed the title and brought his own valet to Chesley Park."

"Mr. Moore."

"Yes. Hambly was given a choice - leave the estate and the family he had been with all his working life and take his chances in an uncertain post-war world, or remain here, as a footman, which I believe he did."

 _Michael_. Well, that explained the hostility between the footman and the valet.

"Well, Barrow, you've done me up splendidly. It's a real treat to have such a capable valet. I know it isn't kind to speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Green was not always up to the mark."

Lord Gillingham was being especially cooperative this morning, if inadvertently.

"My lord, on the subject of Mr. Green. Do you have any knowledge of his having ... transgressed...at Chesley Park?" Barrow didn't want to betray the maid's confidence. If pressed, he would, in this instance, cite someone at Downton as his source.

A distinctly uncomfortable look descended on Lord Gillingham. "As a matter of fact, yes, although, obviously, I didn't know about it at the time. He assaulted one of the maids here, as he had done at Downton. I feel quite the 'Typhoid Mary,' Barrow, having given the man access to these homes and put women at risk thereby."

Barrow thought the man looked genuinely distressed at this. But he had other concerns. "Do they know about Mr. Green here, my lord?" It was his impression that they did not.

"Of course," Lord Gillingham said briskly. "When it...after Green's death, when the police began to investigate it as a possible murder, they discovered a number of victims, including a young woman who had once worked here as a maid. I told Lord Bracken - the current Lord Bracken, obviously - about it myself. I apologized for having brought such a man under this roof and facilitated his crimes."

Some of Barrow's newly-cultivated regard for Lord Gillingham slipped. Gillingham was, no doubt, a good and kind man. But he had apologized to Lord Bracken for sullying, perhaps, the good name of Chesley Park. He had not, Barrow suspected, apologized to the woman concerned.

"Didn't the police make inquiries here?" Barrow was still confused as to why downstairs remained wedded to the idea of the dead Lord Bracken's involvement in the maid's scandal and the need to cover up for him.

"I shouldn't have thought so," Gillingham replied. "She'd left service here and, I believe, she had an alibi for the time of Green's death. The only known victim who didn't was the maid at Downton." He paused. "Thank you, Barrow."

Gillingham went off to breakfast, leaving Barrow in a stew. So His Lordship Jonathan St. Claire had learned that the maid's misfortune had not been his brother's doing, but this information had not been communicated to the staff. It would be awkward, Barrow supposed, to announce to them that His Lordship, the much-lamented elder son, had not beaten and raped the maid as previously assumed. But if this is what the thinking had been upstairs and down until that point, then surely some means might have been found to convey the truth. They should know.

In fact, Barrow thought, running his fingers over his still-sore throat, he might even enjoy telling at least one of them.

 **A Bitter Revelation**

Christopher was still eluding him, but Michael didn't know that Barrow was even looking for _him_ , despite their encounter the previous evening. Nor would he have expected an ambush in mid-morning. Seeing the footman with a pair of muddy boots in his hands, Barrow made an assumption and took up a position in the boot room. When the footman entered unawares, Barrow moved on him from behind, twisted his arm behind his back, and crashed the man into the closed door. Surprise robbed Michael of the advantage of his superior strength.

"Turnabout is fair play," Barrow hissed in his ear.

"You're done for it now, you bastard," Michael snarled right back at him.

"You might want to hold your fire," Barrow warned, "until you hear what I've got to say about Lord Bracken. _Your_ Lord Bracken."

Michael was as still as a statue in Barrow's grip. Either he was listening hard or he was waiting for a moment's advantage.

Barrow saw no reason to drag this out. "He didn't touch the maid Leah. She was attacked by Lord Gillingham's valet, Mr. Green." As he spat out the name, Barrow pushed away from the footman and moved back a few steps, not exactly sure what he would do next if the man didn't listen to him.

But although Michael whirled to face Barrow, he did not advance on him. "What?" He spoke almost dully, as if he didn't quite comprehend.

"Mr. Green was a predator. He attacked one of the maids at Downton Abbey, and a few at other houses besides. _Our_ maid's under suspicion for having murdered him because of it."

"But...what are you saying?"

Barrow supposed he could understand the man's confusion, his difficulty in taking in this revelation. He'd probably spent months reconciling himself to this aberration in behaviour on the part of his favourite and couldn't quite manage the shock.

"I'm saying that whatever drove _your_ Lordship to put a bullet in his brain, it wasn't anything to do with the maid."

Repetition appeared to have had an effect and, for the first time since Barrow had set eyes on him, the glowering look on Michael's face faded into incomprehension, and then distress.

"But...Leah. She turned up...and then His Lordship... _shot_...," he choked a little on the word, "...and then they sent her off straightaway."

"Yeah," Barrow said coolly, committed to the truth but not that interested in sparing the man's feelings. "Lord Gillingham was here for the NewYear's shooting party. Mr. Green did his work. It was your maid's misfortune to be assaulted just as your Lord Bracken was going off his head." Michael scowled at these words, but Barrow ignored him. "What a price she's paid for working in this lovely house."

The truth he had spoken sapped Michael of some of his defensiveness. "Do they know upstairs?"

Barrow almost felt sorry for him. Instead he laughed, a humourless laugh. "Oh, yes. His Lordship Jonathan St. Claire has known for months. Lord Gillingham rushed over to apologize as soon as he learned about Green's other offenses." He'd thought breaking the bad news - especially this part of it - would give him some satisfaction, but when Michael's face went ashen, Barrow had a moment's concern. "Maybe you ought to sit down."

The footman did so. "Lord Bracken _knows_? You mean, he's let us believe that his brother did such a terrible thing to a young woman, and he never _said_?"

Barrow found this incredulity a little hard to take. Hadn't Michael dismissed Jonathan St. Claire as _no gentleman_ only the night before? "Why would you ever have believed that about him anyway?" Barrow didn't know this elder Lord Bracken from Adam, but he wondered at the depths of loyalty involved if there could have been a doubt. Although he supposed he could see Mr. Carson emphatically denying an indiscretion on Lady Mary's part and then, if forced to acknowledge it, dedicating his life to covering it up, as was the case here.

Michael looked up sharply. "Because there _was_ a woman. He told me as much. He'd been fretting over Christmas. I thought...I thought maybe he'd had a fling with someone unsuitable, gotten her pregnant. He was an honourable man, Barrow," Michael spoke earnestly. "He would have felt obliged to do the right thing by her, no matter what the penalty. It would have broken his mother's heart, made a pariah of the family, perhaps, because he wouldn't have had the strength to face down the disapproval. And maybe that was it. Maybe _that's_ what he couldn't face. But then Leah turned up battered and..., well. And then His Lordship...died...and she was gone the next day."

"I didn't want to believe it," he said hollowly. "But it was the only story we had. And the family took pains to hush it all up."

Barrow remembered that Lord Gillingham had not seemed to know the details.

"And that _bastard_ upstairs couldn't be bothered with clearing his brother's name!" Michael had gotten around to anger now. "Well, that doesn't surprise me in the least, the jumped-up little money grubber!"

"I'm sorry," Barrow said, and managed to sound sincere. To some degree he _was_ sincere, sympathetic to the situation at least, if not to the man involved.

The other acknowledged him with a flicker of his hand. "I'm sorry," he echoed Barrow. "For last night. Lord Bracken, Arthur St. Claire, was _my_ gentleman. We went through the war together." He nodded in the direction of Barrow's sheathed hand. "You know how it was."

Barrow did not know, had never known the communion of comradeship-in-arms of which this man spoke, or which Mr. Bates apparently shared with Lord Grantham. He had made no connection with an officer while he was in the trenches. But he was gratified that Michael had included him in the war generation, as Lord Gillingham had not.

"I want a few things from you," he said after a moment.

The footman looked up at him, puzzled.

"First, I want to know everything you know about Edna Braithwaite and Mr. Green."

"Why?"

"It's my own business," Barrow said shortly, but added, "That's the reason I'm here."

"That's peculiar."

Barrow shrugged.

Michael nodded. "She was only here a few months," he said slowly. "Seemed a bit of a forward piece of work, ambitious I think, in an off-putting way. She'd been hired as a lady's maid and didn't know her business, but was keen to get as much as she could out of it. No appreciation for service, really."

Barrow smirked. There was an indictment straight out of Mr. Carson's book.

"I don't know that I exchanged more than a few words with her. I was...valet...then." He looked up at Barrow sharply. "To His Lordship." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, Mr. Wendover and Mrs. Plant didn't much like her, but she was available and inexpensive. Spent most of her free time chatting up the footmen. Sorry," he added, acknowledging his feeble contribution.

Barrow pressed on. "Did you ever see her with Mr. Green?"

Michael thought about it. "He was here several times while she was with us, and yes, they chatted at mealtimes. They were social, both of them, and they seemed to get on. And he was more open to her silly chatter than the other senior servants were. But I didn't see them lurking in any dark corners, if that's what you mean."

That wasn't much help to Barrow. "And Mr. Wendover didn't put a stop to this idle conversation at the table?" He asked this only because he knew how irritating Edna's voice could be and could not imagine the intolerant butler indulging it.

The footman slowly shook his head. "Things were different around here, then. Mr. Wendover has been here for decades. He was always firm, but not...unkind. My lord Bracken was his favourite. When he...died, Mr. Wendover sort of turned. I hardly notice his behaviour now, because I can still remember what he was."

This made some sense to Barrow. He could imagine a deep melancholy settling over Mr. Carson were tragedy to overtake his Lady Mary.

"Is that all?" Michael asked.

"No. I also need to speak to Christopher and he seems to be avoiding me. Can you fix that?"

"And what do you want with him?" The footman spoke in a neutral voice but Barrow could see a different sort of question in his eyes.

"The same thing I wanted from you. Information."

Michael relented. "At your convenience."

"Good. And one more thing. Did you ever see Edna Braithwaite with Lord Bracken?"

Barrow had shaken the man again. He was no fool and like Barrow he made a quick calculation of the facts. "Do you mean to suggest...?"

But Barrow only shook his head. "It's not for me to say."

 **The Last of the Tragedies**

"Look." Christopher was highly agitated. He paced the boot room like a caged animal, an analogy that, with Barrow in front of him and Michael keeping watch beyond the door, was wholly appropriate. "I don't know anything. I don't want any trouble. Could you please just stay away?" There was a pleading note to his voice.

Barrow found such a level of anxiety disquieting and the vulnerability in this young man made him want to be helpful, but he couldn't while away the afternoon on tea and sympathy either. He decided to try a bit of honesty, hoping that that would have a disarming effect.

"I've come to Chesley Park to make inquiries about Edna Braithwaite, Christopher. I need to know anything you can tell me about her. Anything at all. Beyond that I have no interest in the troubles or the gossip or...or anything else about the place. Please."

Christopher didn't seem entirely persuaded, but he was distracted. "Miss Braithwaite?"

"Yes. Did you know her very well?"

Still a little wary, Christopher nodded. "Yeah. Well, yeah, sort of. She was pretty nice to me." He said it as if he wasn't quite sure. "I mean, she was a lady's maid and all. Didn't have to notice me. But we got on. For a while."

"She talked to you more than she talked to Michael? Or to the housekeeper?"

"Well, Mrs. Plant hardly talks to no one except about business. And Michael...he was Mr. Hambly then. But no, she didn't talk much to the upper servants. She talked more to me."

Barrow wasn't surprised. He knew Edna to be a sharp and manipulative woman. She would have seen that she rubbed the senior staff members the wrong way. Much easier to befriend a gullible young footman.

"And she knew about you?" he asked abruptly.

Christopher blanched and went into denial. "What do you mean? Knew what? There's nothing to know about me!" His barriers had gone right up.

"Your secret is safe with me," Barrow said soothingly.

His words had the opposite effect to that intended. It was as if the phrase were a trigger of some sort to Christopher. His manic pacing accelerated. He looked like he might cry. "I don't _have_ any secrets! I don't want to talk to you!"

"It's all right," Barrow said quietly. "I'm like that, too. And that's not why I'm talking to you. That's not why I asked. You can relax. But I do need some information and I'm pretty sure you can help me."

"But I don't _know_ anything!" he persisted.

"Look, Christopher, I saw your face when I mentioned Mr. Green at the table last night."

The young man almost staggered at this. Good God, Barrow thought. What other damage had Mr. Green wrought here?

"I don't know _anything_ about him! I didn't _do_ anything! I was nowhere near London!"

Barrow frowned. "He's dead. Whatever it was, he can't hurt you now."

The face that turned to him was filled with fear. "Can't he?"

"What did you mean, you weren't near London?" But Barrow could add these fragments effectively, too. Was the lad afraid he was going to be accused of murdering Green?

"I wasn't! I can prove it!"

This was getting complicated. "What are you saying, Christopher? Why would anyone connect you with Green's death? Was it...was he...?" He left the question hanging.

"God, no!" Christopher looked appalled at the very thought.

"But he knew about _you_." Barrow didn't like putting the fellow through the ringer, but he felt like this had something to do with his own concerns.

"Yes." As suddenly as his defenses had gone up, they crumbled, and Christopher flung himself into a chair and buried his head in his hands.

Barrow knew enough about the perils of Christopher's predicament and, he supposed, about Mr. Green, too, to venture an educated guess. "And he threatened you."

"Yes!" Christopher's shoulders shuddered.

"Who was he going to tell?"

Christopher looked up at him tearfully through a screen of spread out fingers. "Anyone. Mr. Wendover, I suppose. I'd have lost my job! You know how it is."

Barrow paused. "Well,...yes and no. I know how it _can_ be."

This ambiguous statement distracted Christopher. "Does anyone know about you? Where you work?"

Barrow gave it a moment's consideration. "Just about everyone."

"What? And it isn't a problem?"

"I wouldn't go _that_ far," Barrow admitted, but no, it wasn't really. There was a significant degree of indifference, from His Lordship to Mr. Bates to Mrs. Patmore. Miss Baxter was very sympathetic, Anna reasonably so, even Mrs. Carson to some extent. And though Mr. Carson was disgusted, it didn't seem to get in the way of their working relationship, although this might not be the case entirely with Molesley, if and when he ever figured it out. "But no, not the way you mean anyway."

"You're lucky!" Christopher was astonished.

Barrow shrugged this off. He didn't consider mere tolerance good fortune. "What happened with Green?"

The confidence had calmed Christopher and, it seemed, opened him up. Barrow could see why Edna would have targeted him for exploitation. He was easily won.

"Blackmailed me. I gave him every penny I had. I was sending him money every month. Piddling little amounts. What did he want with that?"

What indeed, Barrow thought savagely. What except the exertion of power over a weaker person.

"I thought maybe they'd find an envelope from me and trace it back," Christopher said nervously. "I never wrote my name on it, but there's always the postmark."

"You'd have heard by now," Barrow said shortly. "Besides, they're pretty sure it was someone else." He didn't go into the details. "What else can you tell me about Edna Braithwaite?" He thought perhaps that Christopher might have more to say now that he'd loosened up a bit.

"What do you mean?"

"Did she get on with Mr. Green?"

"She did." Christopher said this a little guardedly and Barrow sensed resentment, perhaps at being elbowed aside when a more significant fish entered the pond.

"Anything going on between them?" This, after all, was really what Barrow had been sent here to find out.

"No." Christopher said this more confidently than he had anything else. "They were friendly, all right. But she wasn't interested in him in _that_ way." He seemed oddly pleased about this, as if Mr. Green being denied something was satisfying. "She told me she wasn't going to be a lady's maid forever. _She_ had plans to move up. She had her eye on _His Lordship_ , if you can believe it, though how she was going to manage that was beyond me."

Barrow smiled gently. He thought that probably quite a lot of things were beyond the young man. "Thank you," he said quietly. "You've been a great help to me, Christopher."

The sudden conclusion of this interview startled the footman. He seemed to have pulled himself together. "Is there anything else, Mr. Barrow?"

Barrow thought about it. "How did Mr. Green find out about you?" he asked, just out of curiosity. Green was a perceptive observer and Christopher was rather transparent. Barrow thought that his secret might not be as well kept as he thought, even in the servants' hall, as Michael had almost intimated. But Barrow was playing a hunch here.

A crestfallen look came over Christopher. " _She_ told him."

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** These last two chapters have been plot-heavy and shifted the focus away from the Carsons and from Downton. The next chapter will bring the story back to Downton and restore the Carsons to a central role.

Thanks to readers for persisting with this drawn-out drama. Plotting is difficult work...


	8. Chapter 8: The Hard Reality of It

**Chapter 8 The Hard Reality of It**

 **Barrow's Tale and What Comes Of It**

They arranged to meet in the butler's pantry on Monday night. Mrs. Carson had suggested the more congenial venue of their sitting room, but her husband balked at the idea.

"I don't want to be socializing with Mr. Barrow!" he said indignantly.

"We're not socializing," she said reproachfully. "We're trying to help clear Anna's name."

"That's business," he insisted, "and ought to be conducted in our place of business."

She had given in, thinking it not worth the fight.

"And I won't be thrown out again either," he'd added.

She conceded that, too. There were some things you could only do once. "Well, try to be nicer to him," she admonished him. "He's done us a good turn, after all."

" _Only_ because you had something on him," he countered. She hadn't told him what that was, nor had he asked. He already knew more about the darker side of Thomas Barrow than he'd ever wanted to know, thank you very much.

She didn't respond to that. It was true that Barrow had agreed to cooperate only when she'd raised a painful memory, but sometimes she wondered if the younger man's narrow self-interest wasn't more habit than intention. Either way she'd let him know tonight that he was off the hook as far as she was concerned. She'd played her card once. She wouldn't do it again. She'd never played cricket and she hadn't gone to Eton, but the English didn't have a monopoly on fair play.

Barrow was prompt, of course. He moved into the office more easily than on the last occasion. There was no sense of foreboding this time as he knew what they were about. And he was almost eager to have the conversation. His attitude toward Anna's predicament hadn't changed, but his perception of Edna Braithwaite had. He was interested now. The atmosphere was more congenial this evening. Mr. Carson waited until Barrow had arrived to pour the wine. An outsider might have mistaken them all for friends.

They took a moment over their wine.

"How did you get on at Chesley Park, then, Mr. Barrow?"

He wasn't surprised that she came right to the point. "It is a place with many stories to tell, Mrs. Carson," he said obliquely.

"Well, get on with it!" Mr. Carson urged.

Barrow yielded. "You wanted to know about how Edna Braithwaite and Mr. Green were at Chesley Park," he said. He nodded to the butler, but focused his gaze on Mrs. Carson. "Your assumptions were right. They met there on several occasions. They got on well together and chatted over meals and spent time together in the servants' hall. And neither of them were much liked by the senior staff." He paused and for a moment he and Mrs. Carson only looked at each other, making careful assessments.

Mr. Carson was not a poker player. He operated in a world where straight questions were asked and answered without this subtle - and to his mind wholly superfluous - jockeying for position. "Well?" he demanded. "Is that _all_?"

His wife glanced at him and the line of her mouth lengthened just a little in what Barrow recognized as a discreet but indulgent smile. As understated as this was, the underbutler was just a little nauseated. The Carsons' affection for each other was displayed in scrupulously circumspect ways, but it was there all the same. He found it distasteful on a number of levels - he was no more interested in their private life than they were in his - and, though he was loathe to admit it, he was just a little jealous. They could have each other, he didn't care. But it was the simple luxury of having someone at all that he resented.

"No," she said quietly, answering her husband's question. "There's more." And then she was looking at Barrow again and the softness that smoothed her countenance when she looked at Mr. Carson had disappeared. "Isn't there." It wasn't really a question.

Barrow nodded. "It's only..." He paused for effect. "I think you didn't tell me everything going in, Mrs. Carson. I had to piece things together as I went along. I couldn't always be sure what was valuable."

Her enigmatic smile widened just a little more at this. "I'm sure you had a very powerful sense of what was and was not important, Mr. Barrow. But you're right. I wasn't as forthcoming as perhaps I ought to have been." She ignored a dismissive "Harrumph!" from beside her. "Why don't you tell us what you learned and we can all work on putting the pieces together."

Barrow was, at the best of times, reluctant to part with information that might prove useful, but that was, after all, only what he had agreed to do. "I've not got much in the way of facts," he warned. "Most of it is hearsay. Speculation."

"Then it will fit right in with what we've got already," Mrs. Carson said complacently.

He shrugged agreeably. "I don't know how it's connected to Edna Braithwaite," he said, somewhat disingenuously, "but everything I heard seems to go back to Lord Bracken's suicide."

This blunt statement brought a pained look to Mr. Carson's face. He empathized with the family in their tragedy and he recoiled naturally from scandal, anyone's scandal.

"The view at Chesley Park was that a woman was at the bottom of it. One of the maids had turned up badly beaten and..." For Mr. Carson's sake more than his wife's, Barrow let that word hang in the air for a moment, allowing the silence to speak for itself, "...and the next day Lord Bracken shot himself. The connection seemed clear."

"The maid, Leah Close," Mrs. Carson said quietly, biting her lip. Barrow's discretion could not prevent her mind filling with a vision of Anna on that terrible night at Downton Abbey.

"Yes," Barrow said shortly.

"But...that was...the _valet_ 's work, surely," Mr. Carson interceded, swallowing his own disgust.

"Yes," Barrow said again.

Mrs. Carson nodded. "That was something I should have told you," she admitted. "I was focusing on Edna and Mr. Green. You should have had all the particulars there, Mr. Barrow."

"Well, I figured it out," he said easily.

"So...the family thought the...incident...with the maid drove Lord Bracken to his death." However distasteful it all was, Mr. Carson could see how the scenario was a plausible one.

"Yes. And they believed that, upstairs and down, until Lord Gillingham told Lord Bracken - the new one - otherwise, some months later. Only," and though this had nothing to do with the Carsons' interests, Barrow wanted to tell someone about it, "Lord Bracken didn't see fit to tell the staff that bit of it." He was surprised to hear the bitterness in his own voice.

"What?" Mrs. Carson was shocked, but this revelation drained Mr. Carson's face of all colour.

"That is unconscionable!" he gasped, in a horrified whisper.

"It is," Barrow said grimly. "They didn't know the truth until I told them. I thought Mr. Wendover might have a heart attack." He'd turned an alarming shade of purple when Barrow, at Michael's behest, had conveyed the news. The butler hadn't broken into sobs, but it had been a very near thing. "Mr. Wendover and the dead Lord Bracken were very close," he said, watching Mr. Carson attentively. "Apparently his brother didn't much like that. That's how things are at Chesley Park, Mr. Carson," he added.

All three of them took a moment over that.

"That's a terrible story," Mr. Carson said in a hushed voice. And then he cleared his throat. "But what's this got to do with Braithwaite and Green?" He did not like to dwell on the scandals or the tragedies of others without purpose.

Now Barrow fixed his gaze on the housekeeper. "As I said, I'm not sure," he said carefully, although he thought he might. "You see, it seemed to _fit,_ the maid in a bad way and the master killing himself...," - Mr. Carson winced again, "...so they all believed it. But Lord Bracken - the dead one - his valet told me a story once I'd apprised him of the truth. He said Lord Bracken _was_ upset about something. Lord Gillingham, who was there - obviously - with Green in tow, said the same thing. But the valet knew there was a woman on his master's mind and suspected there might be an...unsuitable...alliance that would threaten the family's honour were anything to come of it."

"And...Mr. Green's crime, and that poor young maid, drew everyone's attention in a different direction," Mrs. Carson concluded.

"Yes. The downstairs lot, especially Lord Bracken's devoted valet - but almost everyone else, too - thought the violence out of character for their lordship, but they didn't know there might be another possibility."

Barrow was staring hard at Mrs. Carson. He knew she knew more than she'd told him. _He_ knew more than he'd told her, about both Braithwaite and Green. But he hesitated to confide in her before she demonstrated a willingness to trust him.

Mrs. Carson's mind was racing. Didn't she have a good idea about whom the other woman in the ill-fated Lord Bracken's life might be! Here, almost certainly, was the information she had sought from Chesley Park. She realized that Barrow was peering at her and she met his eyes without giving away anything of her own.

"Is there anything else, Mr. Barrow?"

 _How cool she is_. He said nothing as he tried to decide what course of action to take.

She took his silence to mean 'no.' Now she smiled at him, a genuinely grateful smile. She might have hoped for more, but even Mr. Barrow couldn't draw blood from a stone. He'd brought some pertinent information, material that meant something to her because she had a broader understanding of Edna Braithwaite, knowledge that she had _not_ imparted to him. "I thank you for you time, Mr. Barrow."

"Wait! Is that _it_?" Mr. Carson could not conceal his dismay. He, too, grasped the meaning of the information, but he was not nearly as patient as was his wife in the painstaking reconstruction of events. When he read a detective novel, he spent no time at all trying to figure out who the murderer was. Instead he raced to the conclusion as the quickest route to resolution. She, in contrast, liked to take her time with a story and mull over the evidence. It frustrated him to watch her at it.

Barrow was no less shocked by Mrs. Carson's words than her husband had been, although for different reasons. "Wait!," he said, echoing the butler. "You're not...dismissing me, are you? From the...investigation?" This was not at all what he wanted.

Her smile was a warm one. "I prevailed upon you to go to Chesley Park and learn all you could about Edna and Mr. Green, and you've done a fine job, Mr. Barrow. I'm... _we're_ grateful. You've paid your _debt_ , if that's what you want to call it. I can't ask anything more of you."

Barrow had the uneasy feeling that there was a nuanced negotiation going on here, but in the moment he was slightly distracted. She was telling him that she would not again raise with him or anyone else his unseemly outburst of a few years ago. This concession on her part was, to his mind, unprecedented. An emotional weakness was something that never disappeared and thus might be exploited time and again. It was the foundation of blackmail. And yet she was surrendering her right to it. And he accepted that it wasn't just another tactic on her part. She meant it. He felt quite liberated. But...

"Please," he said quietly, giving nothing away with regard to the anger he had felt since he'd heard the footman's story. "I want to help." How rarely had he appealed for anything with such sincerity!

She meditated, her face impassive. "Do you now believe that Anna is innocent, Mr. Barrow?" It was a holding action question while she calculated.

"I never believed she was guilty," Barrow said honestly. "It was only that I did not care to put myself out to prove it."

Mr. Carson made an impatient sound. "Why do I find that so easy to believe?" he asked of no one in particular.

But Barrow was preoccupied with Mrs. Carson's unsettling silence. It was odd. He held some valuable cards, but she was still dominating the game. He couldn't flush her out. She'd trusted him initially because she'd had no recourse, but she was not necessarily prepared to do so again. He had to show her that _he_ could be trusted.

"There's something else," he said abruptly. "Something I didn't tell you the first time we talked about this. At the time I didn't realize its relevance." Was it a lie if no one believed you? He forged ahead. "You asked me if I'd ever seen Miss Braithwaite and Mr. Green speaking. I told you'd I'd only seen them talking once, in the servants' hall when they were playing that card game."

"And now you've _remembered_ another instance," Mr. Carson said sarcastically. He threw his wife a look that clearly said _I told you so._

"No," Barrow said swiftly. "That was the literal truth. But on the weekend of the house party I saw something else, the morning after the big dinner. I saw Miss Braithwaite with Mr. Branson."

Mr. Carson glanced indiscreetly at Mrs. Carson, but she didn't move a muscle.

"Go on, Mr. Barrow," she said smoothly.

"She was asking him to be kind to her about...what had happened the previous night." He could have repeated her exact words, but felt it wiser to phrase indelicate matters circumspectly for Mr. Carson's benefit.

"And what's that got to do with the valet?" Mr. Carson demanded. Despite his wife's admonishments on the subject, he was still disgusted by Mr. Branson's behaviour. Unable to communicate his dismay directly, he re-directed it at Barrow, conveying his impatience with any suggestion of impropriety on the part of a member of the family, even if that member _was_ Mr. Branson and even if he _was_ guilty of indiscretion.

"Realizing that I was intruding on a personal conversation, I turned away...," he said this not really expecting any credibility for it and there was none to be had, "...and I almost ran right into Mr. Green. I didn't give it any meaning at the time, but..."

"But you think he heard the conversation, too," Mrs. Carson finished, turning to look at her husband.

"And he, recognizing it for what it was, might have thought to turn it to use against her," he said promptly, following her train of thought, "giving us a motive - other than revenge - for murder."

It was a poignant moment.

"I wish you hadn't said that," Mrs. Carson said flatly, breaking the spell.

"Why not?"

She sighed. "It's only that, in the books, whenever the detective's assistant has an idea, it's always wrong."

He frowned indignantly. "Perhaps _I'm_ M. Poirot in this mystery!"

They stared at each other for a long moment and then simultaneously shook their heads, said "No!" emphatically, and exchanged deeply personal smiles.

Barrow did not know why they were suddenly discussing detective fiction, but the whole exchange gave him a queasy feeling. Could they not purge their general conversation of these intimate little signs? He brushed this aside for the rather more potent implications of their words. Unless he was mistaken, this was confirmation of what he himself had suspected about Mr. Branson and Miss Braithwaite, and an acknowledgment that the Carsons understood the implications of this incident for the events at Chesley Park. So Edna had tried her tricks at Downton, even after the tragedy in Cheshire. Only, Mr. Branson was made of sterner stuff than the ill-fated Lord Bracken, or perhaps had more powerful allies at Downton than Arthur St. Claire had known in his own house.

Still, Barrow did not want either his concession or his objective to be lost in the Carsons' musings. "I don't understand," he said, drawing their attention back to him.

Mrs. Carson admirably came right back to the point. "Are you quite serious, Mr. Barrow, about continuing to help us?"

"I am."

"And for some reason other than personal gain?" Mr. Carson intoned, not attempting to conceal his scepticism.

Barrow met the butler's disdainful look. "I have my own reasons for wanting to be part of this, Mr. Carson, and they have nothing to do with...influence. Mr. Green and Miss Braithwaite wronged someone I know. The valet is beyond retribution now, but _she_ can still pay for it." If they thought him vengeful, he didn't care. Wasn't his pursuit of justice as legitimate as theirs?

"I believe you," Mrs. Carson said simply and Barrow felt a flash of gratitude toward her. "So I will explain."

"I'm not sure you should," her husband said cautiously.

She gave him a reassuring smile. "I am."

 _So this is what it is like to be included_ , Barrow thought.

"When she was at Downton, Mr. Barrow, Edna Braithwaite tried to entice Mr. Branson into a relationship, hoping to take advantage of his changed circumstances. When persuasion failed her, she turned to lies and coercion." Mrs. Carson was prepared to trust Barrow, but like him, she never gave away the whole game. He didn't need to know the details. "What you've said about Lord Bracken suggests a pattern in her behaviour of seducing vulnerable men of good fortune. And, as Mr. Carson said, in the hands of an unscrupulous man like Mr. Green, who might have known what she was up to at Chesley Park and probably _did_ know what she was trying here with Mr. Branson, it could add up to a motive for murder."

"That's not much in the way of fact," Barrow said, not trying to undermine the impact of what she'd said, but merely making an observation.

She shrugged. "We know a lot more about them now. We're collecting information on character, Mr. Barrow, not trial evidence."

He hesitated. "There's something else. From Chesley Park."

"What a surprise," Mr. Carson muttered audibly. He was a little taken aback at his wife's forthrightness. He trusted her judgment, but his wariness of the underbutler was too deeply ingrained to be routed by one or two good turns.

Barrow was not deterred by the butler's disgruntlement. It was Mrs. Carson he needed to convince. "Mr. Green was blackmailing someone there, threatening to expose a...a secret...and taking in payment the small wages of the victim."

"Blackmailing who? About what?" Mr. Carson asked.

But Barrow could not be drawn on this. "I can't say."

"Naturally," Mr. Carson said, rolling his eyes and thinking that fictional representations of crime detection did not do justice to the frustrations of the job.

Mrs. Carson, watching Barrow closely, moved to smooth over this brittleness. "So Edna Braithwaite and the _valet_ are unpleasant people. Well, we knew that. Both of them exploiting the weak and the vulnerable as they find them."

"She drove a weak man to his death and _he_...," Carson paused, unwilling of Green's vile crimes explicitly, " _he_ ... and then blackmailed someone else."

"Yes," Barrow agreed crisply. "That and more."

"So now what? Is it time to go to Scotland Yard?" Mr. Carson looked to his wife.

She sighed. "Mr. Barrow is right. We've no proof of anything. It's all speculation. We don't know Edna had anything to do with Lord Bracken. We just know of a pattern of behaviour on her part and some suggestive developments there that support the contention that she did."

"There is something else," Barrow said again, and this time both of the Carsons fixed him exasperated looks.

"How many more _something elses_ are there?" Mr. Carson demanded.

"I think it's the last one. One of the staff at Chesley Park said that Edna told him she had designs on Lord Bracken. She wanted to move up, he said."

"A rather critical piece of evidence, Mr. Barrow!" Mrs. Carson said, showing impatience for the first time.

"Yes, but...he can't testify again her."

"And why not?"

"Because..." Barrow paused and then looked very hard into Mrs. Carson's eyes. "Because if he spills her secret, she'll spill his. He'd lose his job and possibly more." He hoped she would understand what he could not put into words.

Mr. Carson certainly didn't. "This is getting more sordid by the moment. Mr. Barrow, we are talking about murder. Sometimes one has to risk the exposure of one's own dirty little secrets for the greater good." He spoke this with all the assurance of a man whose own unwashed laundry was only mildly grubby and which, incidentally, had already been aired and with remarkably little in the way of repercussions.

"It can't be done, Mr. Carson." Barrow was adamant.

The butler might have pressed the issue but he desisted at a glance from his wife. "How do we move forward, then?" he asked, determined to take up the question with her again once Barrow had gone.

She stirred in her chair. "We must proceed as though we believe Edna Braithwaite to be the culprit. She's the only possibility we have and I think we have a strong, if largely unsubstantiated, case against her. We know that she knew Mr. Green and that she was up to dirty tricks that he was likely aware of. We also know that he was capable of blackmail and violence, giving her a potential motive. We do not have the evidence yet, but we must find some." She spoke with determination.

"I disagree."

Mrs. Carson and Barrow both looked with some astonishment at Mr. Carson.

"The likelihood of finding evidence against Edna with regard to Mr. Green is minimal at this point," he said. "The police have been all over the thing from the other end and haven't even come close to this solution. Time has concealed her tracks too well, and all we've got is speculation."

"Are you saying she's gotten away with murder?" his wife demanded. "That our hopes of relieving Anna of this travesty are hopeless?" She shook her head in wonder. "I never thought I'd see the day when _you_ gave up on British justice!"

"I haven't," he said calmly. "I'm only saying that it may be next to impossible to pin her down on a past crime. It might be easier to catch her in the act of a new one."

"You mean she has to kill someone else?" She was aghast.

"Let's hope it won't come to that," he said warmly. "I'm only saying that if she killed once for blackmail, then maybe she'll try to do so again. Say, perhaps, if someone were to put it to her that her secret might come out and imperil her future ambitions."

"But how do we make that happen?"

Mr. Carson emitted a humourless laugh. "She may have done our work for us. She is working, as we know, at the estate at Cross Harbour in Durham where there is an unmarried heir to a large fortune in residence. Such a situation may make her particularly susceptible to another blackmail attempt."

The other two gaped at him and he took a little offense at their astonishment. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You really do read _Burke's Peerage_ for pleasure," Barrow said, with an air of disbelief.

Mr. Carson huffed and looked away.

"You're not the blackmailing type, Mr. Carson," Barrow broke in. "And neither are you," he added, glancing at the housekeeper. "But I am. I think we could carry it off." How easily he had included himself.

"As I recall," Mr. Carson said, a little dubiously, "you chatted her up a few times yourself. Can you be convincing?"

"We parted on bad terms. Besides, I'd never let a friendly word get in the way of an opportunity." He said this largely because he thought they would find it believable. If it ensured his participation in the scheme, it would be worth this slight on his character. "And I doubt she would either. She'd probably kill her own grandmother if her prospects were threatened one more time."

"I'm not sure about this," Mrs. Carson put in, drawing them back to the subject. "Going to Chesley Park was one thing. But this is dangerous. We think she killed a man, Mr. Barrow, and I won't have you risking your life on this. Not even for Anna. We'll have to find another way."

"I spent two years in the trenches, Mrs. Carson," Barrow said forcefully. "I've known danger. And I want to be a part of this. Mr. Carson is right. Green's murder is a cold trail. But we've got an advantage now. We know what we're after from the beginning."

"So you will go to Cross Harbour...," Mr. Carson began.

"And let her know I know about her schemes, and maybe Mr. Green, too." Plotting was oddly exhilarating, now that it seemed they were on to something. Barrow went on eagerly. "I can tell her I'm looking forward to a steady income once she's successful there. Third time lucky!"

"Once the bee's in her bonnet, then we may have to concoct an opportunity for her to act," Mr. Carson continued, "but..."

"But she may not wait for us to provide an opportunity," Mrs. Carson interrupted. "She may strike without warning. When you stir up a hornet's nest, you can't anticipate the consequences. That's your life on the line, Mr. Barrow. I won't ask that of you."

He straightened his shoulders and met her gaze without blinking. "I want to see her fall, Mrs. Carson."

"And if she isn't the killer?" she inquired. She was convinced that Edna Braithwaite _was_ behind the valet's murderer, but this enthusiastic exchange between the two men and the potential hazards of their musings made her want to slow things down.

"Then she won't take the bait," Barrow said easily.

Minutes ticked by in silence and then Barrow got to his feet. "Perhaps we can work out the details over the next few days," he said lightly. "I had a tiring weekend, so just now I think I'm going to go to bed." He nodded at them and ducked out.

Mrs. Carson became aware that her husband was holding out a hand to her. "We ought to go up, too," he said gently, recognizing her distraction.

She reached out to take his hand, but she could not shake her unease. _What did you expect_? she asked herself. _We're dealing with a murderer, after all_. But she knew what had happened. It had all suddenly shifted from the speculative realm, where she and Charlie could joke about fictional detectives, to hard reality, and now it was entirely possible that someone else was going to get hurt. And that was a sobering thought indeed.

 **Protecting Our Own**

"How do you credit Lord Bracken not telling the staff the truth about his brother?" Mr. Carson asked, settling into bed. "At the very least not telling his butler. His Lordship would never have done such a thing." Even in his distraction he pulled the covers back for her and felt the pleasant tingle of anticipation at the thought of her body next to his.

Mrs. Carson's affectionate gaze rested on her husband, whose brow was knit with consternation over the unsavoury fact of Lord Bracken's behaviour. Her Mr. Carson was a man of the world in many ways, and yet he still clung in some things to convictions that betrayed an unshakable naiveté. Even with evidence abundant, he continued to believe that gentlemen conformed to certain morés and when they strayed from them he was shocked.

"I agree with you," she said, getting in beside him and smiling as he tucked the blankets around her. "But then, you and His Lordship are friends. It sounds to me as if Lord Bracken-the-younger might have had cause for jealousy in the relationship between his brother and the butler. Playing favourites like that can sometimes have adverse effects," she added pointedly.

His mind was focused on her first statement and so he missed the lesson she had tried to impart. "His Lordship and I are _not_ friends," he said firmly. He would not deny that he and Lord Grantham had a very close association that in some ways mimicked the intimacies of friendship, but he saw the lord-butler dynamic as a unique one.

She decided not to press the issue. "It's about sibling rivalry," she said more emphatically. "Perhaps there was bad blood between the brothers."

"Even so." His own brother had hardly lived beyond infancy, making the question an abstract one for him, but Mr. Carson could not even imagine such an animosity. *****

Watching the consideration of this possibility play out in his eyes, she sighed. "Can you not see it? Think of Lady Mary and Lady Edith!"

He looked affronted. "They would never stoop to such low..."

"Oh, for goodness sake, Charlie! Who do you think it was spilled the beans on Lady Mary and the Turkish diplomat but her own sister Lady Edith? And I'm certain Lady Mary would return the favour if chance offered!" She did not know of any _quid pro quo_ on the eldest Crawley girl's part, but it was not hard to imagine it happening.

He looked aghast. "You cannot know that!" he fumed. _Why was she always bringing up that incident!_

"But I do."

"How on earth...?"

"I listen at keyholes, Charlie."

He drew back just a little bit and studied her for a moment with not a little trepidation. As well as he knew her, he could not tell if she were teasing him or not. He decided it was wiser to abandon this line of conversation altogether, and reached over to put out the light, hoping darkness might turn her mind to other pursuits.

It had been a long day and the session with Barrow, however worthwhile the object, had taken up even more time. Mr. Carson resented it just a little because marriage had made going to bed his favourite time of day and he did not like to surrender a moment of it. By unspoken agreement they spent several minutes indulging in kisses and caresses directed to relaxing them for sleep, rather than exciting the tensions of greater intimacy. Perhaps tomorrow night...

And yet she did not seem to be relaxing.

"What is it?" he asked solicitously, cradling her in his arms and drawing her head against his chest.

"It's just..." She knew he wouldn't to get into this. Not now.

His chest heaved a little, an indication that he discerned the source of her unease. "You're still thinking about it," he said, and though he rather wished his attentions were enough to drive such mundane considerations from her mind, he knew how troubling matters could persist.

"I don't think we ought to let Mr. Barrow go to Durham." There. She'd said it.

He groaned a little. "There's a name I never want mentioned in my bed, if you don't mind." That was his complaint, but it did nothing to resolve her concerns. "He knows what he's about," he said, trying to be reassuring. "Remember what he said. He was in the war."

She sniffed sceptically. "And he wasn't prepared for that either, was he! And listen to you. You didn't even want to involve him and now you're prepared to launch him into the arms of a murderer."

"I'd put money on his survival in any circumstances," he said flatly. "Look," he added, "he's not booked onto an early train. Let's discuss it tomorrow."

Well, she couldn't argue with that. And it was pleasant to lie here in the powerful arms of her loving husband and to pretend, for a little while at least, that the worries of the world could not touch her. She reached up to kiss his cheek and could feel his smile taking shape beneath her lips. No sooner had she snuggled into his chest again, determined to abandon her worries for a moment at least, than he broke his own code.

"What's gotten into Mr. Barrow anyway? He goes away to Chesley Park all surly and uncooperative, and comes back ready to take on the lioness in her den." Her response did not really clarify things for him.

"We all try to protect our own," she murmured, tightening her arms around him.

 *** AUTHOR'S NOTE:** There is no canon foundation for Mr. Carson having a brother. I invented him.


	9. Chapter 9: On the Eve of Confrontation

**CORNERING A KILLER**

 **Chapter 9 On the Eve of Confrontation**

 **Lady Mary's Offers to Help**

"Carson."

Lady Mary approached him as the family rose from breakfast. He had begun to clear, but he paused, plates in hand, to attend to her.

She paused, too, waiting as His Lordship, Her Ladyship, and Lady Edith separated and departed. Mary smiled a sweet goodbye to her parents and then turned to Carson with a rather more prosaic demeanour.

"I've been wondering how your...investigation...is progressing, Carson. What news of Barrow's sojourn to Chesley Park? Did he learn anything useful there?"

Carson did not immediately respond. Instead he cast his eyes about the room. "This is a matter of some discretion, my lady," he intoned.

If his exaggerated caution exasperated her, she gave no hint of it. "Then let us find somewhere more discreet to discuss it." She rang the bell and a moment later Molesley appeared. "Could you please clear the breakfast things, Molesley? Carson and I have business we must address." The footman nodded obligingly and Mary led Carson to the small library, which was deserted at this hour of the day.

"I see Anna sinking lower every day, Carson," Mary said, her voice heavy with the truth of her words. "And the dreadful Inspector Viner called yesterday, for clarification on a few points."

"Surely he knows everything by now," Carson said indignantly. He had not yet heard about this development, although Anna had seemed even more downcast than usual at the servants' breakfast earlier.

Mary waved dismissively. "He thinks he knows far more than he does, and of course he had nothing new to add. He only wants to apply pressure and hope that Anna will incriminate herself in a fit of nervous collapse. He is a despicable man." She wasn't going to get any argument from Carson on that. "She is strong, but I doubt she can go on with this uncertainty indefinitely, which brings me back to you and Mrs. Carson and your...project. What, if anything, did Barrow learn?"

Carson hesitated again, but now more on grounds of propriety than fear of discovery. "Mr. Barrow unearthed some useful information, my lady, but I fear that it is all still speculation on our part. I would not want to cast aspersions on the reputation of any man or woman...," _even_ Edna Braithwaite, "...without concrete evidence."

His caution taxed Lady Mary's patience. She gestured around them. "There's no one else to hear your slander, Carson. And I can keep a secret. So give forth! I insist. I went along blindly with your plan about Chesley Park and even inveigled Lord Gillingham to arrange it, at some cost to his marriage apparently. But now I think I'm entitled to the whole story."

It was a legitimate argument and he knew that he could trust her to go no further with the tale he had to tell, so he told it to her, although not adhering strictly to her directive for the _whole_ story. He related Elsie's examination of the evidence and her identification of Edna Braithwaite as a potential culprit, the connection they had discerned between Braithwaite and Green, and Barrow's revelations of additional information that suggested a motive for Green's murder. He did not dwell extensively on the role Edna had played in Lord Bracken's death, although it was necessary to allude to it, and he did not mention her machinations at Downton Abbey or Tom Branson at all. Although Carson continued to disapprove of that young man, he did not think it his place to disabuse Lady Mary of her warm regard for her brother-in-law.

She listened closely while he spoke, not taking her eyes from his or interrupting the flow of his narrative. Only when he fell silent did her gaze shift. And then she walked the length of the room, stared out the window for a moment, and returned to his side.

"Edna Braithwaite," she murmured. "Do you know I can't even picture her, though I remember the name."

"And why would you, my lady. She was here so briefly. Both times."

Mary shrugged. She liked to think she was a better employer than that.

"It _is_ all speculation, my lady," he reminded her.

Now she did make an exasperated sound. "I understand that, Carson. I will make no unfounded accusations, or any other kind for that matter. But...the story you have told me holds together very well. I grieve for Lord Bracken."

"Did you know him?"

She shrugged. "As I know so many people, Carson. We were acquainted. But what about Miss Braithwaite now? You believe her to have had means, motive, and opportunity to kill Green...," Lady Mary had read a few detective novels, too, "...and I agree that you have made a compelling case. And yet you think there is nothing concrete to take to the police."

"That is the rub of it, my lady, only...," he felt impelled to give credit where credit was due, "it was Mrs. Carson who took the initiative, made something of the paltry evidence, and put the pieces together. And," he added more reluctantly, "Mr. Barrow proved himself a skilled investigator."

"I'll say," Mary said with feeling. "Mrs. Carson could be working for Scotland Yard. And Barrow. Well, I've always thought him capable of it, but it's just a little unnerving to see him in action and so very effective, too. We must watch our step, with both of them. I don't mind residing on the outer circle of things, Carson, but you must promise me that when it all comes out and Inspector Viner is forced to eat every one of his execrable words, you will ensure me a place at the table to watch."

He smiled indulgently, if briefly. "I promise. But we are a-ways from that yet, my lady. It is my view that trying to establish Miss Braithwaite's guilt in past crimes, at least where the death of Mr. Green is concerned, may be next to impossible. And if we tip our hand to the police, they may put the wind up her with a result."

"You mean that Inspector Viner will botch it," Mary declared, nodding, and sounding much like her acerbic grandmother. "I agree. So what do you think ought to be done?"

He was gratified that she thought he might have some part to play here, too. "That we catch her in the act of a new crime, my lady."

"Ah!" She understood immediately. "Set a trap for her." Her eyes glittered at the prospect. "That may be dangerous," she said.

"Indeed. Mrs. Carson is quite distressed on that point," he said.

She raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"For Mr. Barrow, my lady. He seems the most appropriate...front man, if I may be so vulgar,...for our operations. And he is eager. But Mrs. Carson is afraid for him." He watched her carefully as she considered this. Would she exhibit a womanly sensibility where Barrow was concerned, or come down on his side?

"It's murder, Carson," she said grimly. "Can it be anything _but_ dangerous? And Anna's life is involved. If Barrow is willing, I say go to it."

He bowed his head in agreement.

"Does Mrs. Carson have a plan yet?"

It pleased him that Lady Mary should yield to his wife's strategic oversight. "Yes. Mr. Barrow is to go to the estate at Cross Harbour, in Durham, where Miss Braithwaite is now employed, and put it to her that he knows her story and will make life difficult for her unless she compensates him accordingly."

"Well! Blackmail! Lady Mary's eyes went round with appreciation. "A sound approach. Then what?"

Carson shrugged. This is where they had gotten bogged down with conflict in their planning. "Then we wait, my lady, to see if she pays up or..."

"Or tries to kill Barrow," she finished unequivocally. "And then Mrs. Carson and her team of investigators will move in to catch her in the act, preferably _before_ she does the deed."

"It is a blunt instrument, blackmail," Carson conceded.

But Mary would have none of it. "It's an effective ploy, Carson, and I agree with it. So Barrow must get to Cross Harbour that he might bait the trap. What if I were to take him there?"

This possibility caught him off guard. "My lady?"

"I must go to Newcastle this week to an exhibition on _farm machinery_. Really, Carson, sometimes I wonder who I am."

"You are the conscientious mother of the future Eighth Earl of Grantham, my lady. And you are making the most of the opportunities available to safeguard his inheritance." Carson spoke his piece as if he had been practicing it, which was a distinct possibility.

She smiled. "Well, that's a very charming way of putting it. Thank you. But it means I'll be driving through Durham and I could easily put in at Cross Harbour for tea."

"You know the family, then?"

"We're acquainted. In the same way that I was acquainted with Lord Bracken. But it might be useful to renew that connection in light of these developments. There may be reason to contact them again."

"But how will you manage it, my lady?"

That appeared to be the least of problems from Lady Mary's perspective. "I'll just ring them up, tell them I'm in the neighbourhood, and invite myself to tea."

Carson had been enjoying this conversation from the perspective of a co-conspirator unveiling the next level of the plan, but Lady Mary's blithe disregard for social convention prompted a reassertion of his butler's sensibilities. "That's very ill bred, my lady, if I may say so." Clearly he was determined she should know it no matter whether she gave him leave to say it or not.

She was amused by his addiction to the niceties. "This _is_ murder we're talking about Carson," she reminded him. "There are no manners when it comes to murder."

That, Carson mused, sounded like something Hercules Poirot had said. And it was not a sentiment with which he agreed.

"And it's not like it hasn't been done, Carson. Remember Lady Anstruther's descent upon us the evening of His Lordship's and Her Ladyship's anniversary dinner?"

"That is the very point I was trying to make, my lady," he intoned disapprovingly.

"Well, it's for a better cause in this instance," Mary said hurriedly, realizing that Carson could pontificate on this subject all day. "Run the idea by Mrs. Carson and see what she thinks of it."

This derailed him. "Really, my lady?"

"Yes, really, Carson. She's the brains behind this enterprise. I don't want to cross her or disrupt any of her carefully laid plans. I must say," she added, as a bit of an aside, "that's some plotter you've married."

"She is indeed," Carson said agreed, and he was proud of that fact.

 **Mrs. Carson Has Her Say**

"I hope you don't mind," he said, speaking to Elsie later that morning and explaining to her his conversation with Lady Mary. They were standing together in his pantry, both doors firmly closed. Ever since he'd learned of the vent in her sitting room that made eavesdropping possible, he hadn't want to have any confidential conversations there.

"No, I don't mind," she said lightly, and then added, "Lady Mary is being very helpful."

"Don't be like that."

"I'm not being like anything. I meant it. She _is_ interested in Anna, I'll give her that. And she's right about the state of her, too. We must get on with things if we're to do Anna any good at all."

"So Lady's Mary's offer?"

Elsie stared at him for a moment. She wondered if it were ungenerous of her to believe his enthusiasm for action at this point had something to do with Lady Mary's involvement. She shook off the thought. He'd been a slow convert to this investigation business, but once he'd taken it up, he'd proven as keen as she was. And Lady Mary _was_ providing them with a way forward. "Well, it's the easiest way to get Mr. Barrow there. And the fastest. So, yes, I think we can take her up on it."

He smiled in satisfaction. She rolled her eyes.

"I saw that, you know," he said, a little indignantly. She hadn't even tried to hide it. "Lady Mary said your work in this matter was exemplary and that she would support your appointment to a position at Scotland Yard." It was a slight embellishment of Lady Mary's words, but he wanted her to know that she had gained Lady Mary's approbation, something he considered worth having.

She laughed. "Well, that's a novel way for her to get rid of me."

He groaned.

"Flattery from you means something to me, Charlie. Flattery from Lady Mary has no effect at all." And he ought to know that by now. She thought he might leap to his favourite's defense, but instead he moved more closely to her.

"I should hope that my effort to charm you would make a greater impression that anyone else's," he said, his eyes suddenly open windows to his great love for her. He leaned down to kiss her.

She smiled beneath the touch of his lips. "You're getting very bold, Mr. Carson," she said tartly, but her own eyes sparkled back at him.

It was a compliment he appreciated very much.

"I'm still worried about Mr. Barrow in all this," she said, when he had stepped back once more.

"I'm not."

"I wish you'd stop saying that."

 **Carson's Unease**

It had been some time since Carson had visited the male servants' quarters in the attics of the Abbey. Since his marriage, he had had no reason to go there. Mr. Barrow was the senior male staff member now and on the other side of the always-locked door that separated the male servants from the female ones, the key to that door now hung in Miss Baxter's room. It rightfully belonged to the housekeeper, but it was impractical for it to remain in Mrs. Carson's possession. That key and the authorization to use it were matters for situations of illness or emergency, and only useful in the housekeeper's hands if she were on the spot. As she no longer was, this responsibility had fallen to the senior woman in residence, Her Ladyship's lady's maid.

Barrow had not moved into Carson's old room. There was no point, really. It might have been marginally larger than Barrow's, but there was no cachet to sleeping in a specific room. Not anymore. Who was there left to impress with authority? Molesley? Andy? The hall boy? What an anachronism that last was becoming. And they were very difficult to find these days, too. Carson shook his head.

He felt a twinge as he looked in his old room, the door of which stood ajar. He wouldn't have that life - a loveless life of solitude - back again, not if he were handsomely paid in the bargain. But memories were irrational things that called forth emotions, and the room, bare as it was, still had a hold on him.

He knocked on Barrow's door and, at a word from within, pushed it open to find the underbutler just preparing his clothes for the following day. Barrow was surprised to see him. Mr. Carson had never been in his room. And they had, earlier that evening, already thoroughly discussed the parameters of his proposed conversation with Edna.

Carson was aware of the novelty of his visit and uncomfortable with it. "You're ready then." He did not look at Barrow as he said this and it wasn't really a question.

Barrow did not respond, instead watching Mr. Carson's eyes traverse his room as though he were looking for something of which he might disapprove.

"No secrets this time," Carson went on. "And no surprises." He had not been pleased with Barrow's _and another thing_ report of his visit to Chesley Park or his lack of complete disclosure before that.

"On either side," Barrow said smoothly. He was a player now, but he had not forgotten the fight for his place.

Carson chose to ignore this. "Stick to the plan, Mr. Barrow."

"As we discussed." Barrow wondered what it was the man really wanted to say.

"Mrs. Carson is concerned," Carson said at last. "She's worried Miss Braithwaite might actually kill you."

Barrow shrugged. "Women," he said softly. "You're not worried, are you, Mr. Carson? You think I've got nine lives."

Carson refused to be drawn by Barrow's provocation. "Nine times nine," he said roughly, thinking of the number of times he'd thought himself rid of Barrow only to find the man at his side once more, with that annoying smirk pasted across his face.

"I can take care of myself, Mr. Carson."

"See that you do."

And with that, Carson left. The stilted conversation had done nothing to dispel the sense of unease that had come over him earlier when they'd gone over the approach Barrow was to take with Edna Braithwaite. It had started off as an intellectual exercise, this investigation of the vile valet's death, a brain-teaser not unlike reading a mystery novel. But as they were saying to each other with increasing frequency, this _was_ murder after all. Tomorrow Barrow would confront, for the first time since they'd begun to consider it, the person they thought had murdered one man and as good as led another to his death. And now they were trying to entice her to further violence as a means to trap her. It had all suddenly become so very serious. Carson wondered if any of them were really up to it.


	10. Chapter 10: Dangling the Bait

**CORNERING A KILLER**

 **Chapter 10**. **Dangling the Bait**

 **Morning Musings**

Mrs. Carson was upstairs, as she usually was mid-morning, checking on the work of the maids, when she heard the car pull up out front. Her attention shifted abruptly from the tightly folded sheet corners of the bed - good work by Grace - to Mr. Barrow's mission, and she moved over to the long windows and looked out. Lady Mary, dressed for an outing, was speaking with Her Ladyship. Mr. Stark stood waiting by the car door. And on the far side of the vehicle there was Mr. Barrow, looking almost foreign in his grey suit. She did not often see him out of his livery.

Even in her concentration, she heard a familiar soft tread in the passage and knew, before he spoke, that her husband had come up behind her. He was a big man, but he moved so lightly, a consequence perhaps of a lifetime's consideration for the family. She didn't turn to greet him, but did lean back into him as he reached her side. Marriage had brought a welcome change to many of the ways in which they interacted, but she counted the smallest of intimacies, like this one, among those she treasured the most.

"He's off then," Mr. Carson said, as the doors slammed below and the car rolled slowly down the drive.

"We're starting something with this," she said gravely, "and no matter which way it goes, it'll take on a momentum of its own. I hope we've done the right thing."

"We have," he said, with confidence. "For Anna and for justice as well."

"I worry that Edna is even more capable than we know her to be," she admitted.

To her surprise, her husband slipped his arms around her and held her closely for a long moment. In his embrace it was almost possible to let the low-level sense of dread that had enveloped her all morning slip away.

"Well, she'll hardly try to kill him today," he said.

 **In the Lion's Den**

Lady Mary said nothing to him about why he was to accompany her to Cross Harbour. It was neither his place nor his inclination to discuss the matter with her. He didn't even know how much she knew. And he didn't care either. Like the Carsons, her primary concern was Anna and lifting the veil of shadow that seemed perpetually to fall on the Bateses.

Thomas had other concerns. Avenging Christopher, whether the young footmen ever even knew about it, was certainly among them. But he'd begun to appreciate that Christopher was only part of a larger animating force. Cornering Edna was an opportunity to strike back on behalf of _all_ men 'like that,' himself included. They operated of necessity in the shadows which made them inherently vulnerable to exploitation or coercion by others, putting them in the passive role of victims to be acted upon. It was an insidious position that Thomas had resented and resisted all his life. This venture was one more battle that he might wage in this all but silent war. That the enemy, in this instance, was someone he considered reprehensible made the operation only that much sweeter. And to think that Mr. and Mrs. Carson, and even Lady Mary, were allies in his cause!

Lady Mary did put it to him that he would have to find his own way back, but that didn't trouble him. He would see Edna sometime in the early afternoon - it was a relatively flexible part of the day for a lady's maid - and then walk into town, catch the bus to Durham, and be in time for the evening train to York. Once there, he hoped that Mr. Carson would send a car for him, although he wasn't going to hold his breath on that one.

They'd given some thought, the three of them, as to how best to approach Edna, about whether to give her advance notice or just to appear out of nowhere, and concluded unanimously that taking her by surprise was to their advantage. She was a shrewd shrew and they had to play every card they had in this dangerous game.

That it _was_ dangerous was an assumption clearly on everyone's mind. Thomas acknowledged this as readily as did the Carsons, but it did not much worry him. He had been terrified every minute he had spent in the trenches during the war, and every minute he'd been anywhere else, too, in those hellish years in anticipation of having to go back. In theory, any threat to one's life ought to inspire the same level of dread, but it didn't work that way. In the trenches, death was brutally arbitrary and all the survival skills he had cultivated meant nothing there. His confrontation with Edna Braithwaite, on the other hand, would be a battle of wit and nerve, and Thomas had never met his match in either.

He lost a measure of surprise when he did not find her in the servants' hall at Cross Harbour and she had to be summoned. Thomas affected a pose of nonchalance among the other servants who cast curious looks at him. Perhaps it was the idea of Edna having a visitor that interested them. Or perhaps strangers were rare at Cross Harbour. He had to give his name, so she would have at least a few moments to prepare herself, but he hoped that she would be rattled all the same.

At length, she appeared.

Edna Braithwaite was a small, slight woman, not unlike Anna in build. She was, to Thomas's mind, very ordinary-looking, with hair a nondescript shade of brown and without waves or curls to enliven it. Her face, like her hair, was very plain and her eyes, too, were unremarkable. Edna had drawn _his_ interest, during her brief interval as a lady's maid at Downton, only because of her sharp mind and capacity for intrigue. Whatever other charms she had - and she must have some, for she had mesmerized the ill-fated Lord Bracken and wooed Tom Branson - these escaped Thomas. Or perhaps it was that he was impervious to her skills of manipulation.

She wasn't pleased to see him. He knew that at a glance. Their last exchange had been a cutting one, involving an exchange of insults in which he had gotten the better of her. She could have no inkling of why he was here and this made her vulnerable. But she knew how to mislead an audience, so she pasted a smile on her face and greeted him cordially, if not warmly. He replied in kind and invited her for a walk. She accepted, no doubt with a view of sending him on his way at the earliest opportunity, and they made their way out the coal yard door and then onto one of the gravel paths of the estate beyond it. She did not want anyone to overhear their conversation, which was just as well, because neither did he.

"Lady's maid," Thomas mused, looking about him as they walked. Cross Harbour was in good order. Estates were falling like nine pins these days, but they were doing all right here. Well, this would have to be so in order to attract Edna. "You're nicely placed here."

She nodded. "It's a good post." Like Thomas, Edna gave away as little as possible.

"I wish I was so secure."

Edna laughed. "Finally caught on to you, have they?"

Thomas smiled humourlessly. "No," he said lightly. "It's more mundane than that. They're tightening the belt, looking to make cuts. _Who needs an underbutler these days_? I heard His Lordship say so himself."

That Edna was not at all interested in making conversation with him was obvious. But until he showed his colours, she had to play along. "I thought you were angling for butler," she said.

"So I was," Thomas admitted gloomily. "Mr. Carson _should_ retire. He's old enough. Instead," he paused to add more drama to the moment, "he's gotten married. To Mrs. Hughes."

He had astonished her. She stared at him in shock. When at Downton, Edna had had little regard for the housekeeper, and even less for the butler. Now she threw back her head and laughed aloud. "Those two old fogeys! How ridiculous!" Her laughter was laced with contempt.

It was only what Thomas himself had thought at first, but the scorn in her voice got his back up all the same. Downton was, for better or for worse, like a family. His own family had not been pleasant so he did not necessarily associate love and warmth with such a relation. Family rules allowed _him_ , as a member in good standing, to criticize the Carsons and anyone else, but did extend this privilege to outsiders. He resented her presumption. But he had to maintain his focus here.

"Yes," he said aggressively. "He's old and then he gets married - good reasons for retiring twice over - and then I'd have gotten the job." That there was a real sense of grievance here allowed him to play the part effectively. "Instead, everyone cheered them on. His Lordship even paid for their wedding and reception. _And_ served as best man, if you can believe it. And _I'm_ shortly to be out on my ear. Depressing, really. Mr. Carson keeps urging me to find work." Again the real sense of precariousness in his position at Downton added a genuine bitterness to his remarks.

"How terrible," Edna said, with evident insincerity.

Thomas let a few seconds of silence tick by. "Which is why I've dropped in on you," he said, his voice suddenly quiet but calculating.

"Well, there's no work here," she said bluntly.

"I wasn't thinking of work."

She sniffed indignantly. "I'm hardly in a position to make you a loan, nor would I if I could."

He would have expected no less in any situation. Edna wasn't the friendly sort.

"I'm not looking for a loan," he went on, maintaining a muted tone. "More of a goodwill offering, on a regular basis, to encourage me to ... forget ... things I know."

She stopped and turned to face him. They had passed through a thicket and were now standing in a glade, well screened from the house some distance behind them.

"What are you on about?" She affected a tone of irritated bewilderment and he had to hand it to her, she was good. It was something an innocent person might say.

"The day after the house party, I was standing in the Great Hall when you spoke to Mr. Branson," he said evenly. "I heard what you said."

She did not blink. "So?"

"I know about your ... pregnancy...charade," he added.

Her eyes searched his for a long moment. "You know nought," she said dismissively, and turned away.

Thomas wasn't discouraged. "Thing is," he continued, "I've been to Chesley Park."

A less capable liar would have given herself away with a double-take, but Edna held her own counsel and did not even flinch. Only after a few seconds elapsed did she slowly look his way again.

Once more he was impressed with her poise. She gave nothing away. And yet there was something, _must_ be something, else she would have turned on her heel and left.

"That means nothing to me," she said dispassionately.

"It may mean something to your current employer," he persisted, "even if you've lowered your sights from the heir to a visiting viscount or a boring baronet. No one wants a scheming maid with aspirations above her station around vulnerable men."

Her nose crinkled in disgust as though she had suddenly caught wind of him and found him smelling foul. "It's all rot what you're saying."

"We could let the Edgertons hear your story and make up their mind for themselves, shall we? I've got nothing to lose." He spoke in an airy tone. It was one of the pleasures of his life to put people in uncomfortable positions and watch how they fared.

She made a dismissive sound. "Don't you. Telling tales like that about Tom Branson. You wouldn't embarrass the Crawleys like that."

Thomas laughed. "You've mistaken me for Mr. Carson. Mr. Branson is gone to America and they're going to sack me anyway. What do I care for them? And I never knew Lord Bracken in the first place, so his reputation doesn't matter to me either."

"You are an oily, repulsive man!" She was trying for indignation.

It was difficult for him to suppress a smug smile. It was almost like playing a fish on a hook. "Just trying to secure my future," he said lightly.

"By using lies to extort money from a lady's maid? Do you know how little there is to steal?"

Her claims to victimhood glanced off of him. "A little better than a footman's wages," he said coldly. He wanted her to know that he knew about Christopher. "Anyway." He shook his head, not wanting to fog his brain with useless distractions. "I have confidence that you'll strike it rich for both of us, and soon, if we can just keep past indiscretions quiet." The allusion to her future was deliberate. He wanted her to know that this was not a one-time thing. If she felt the millstone tightening about her neck forever, she might be prompted to a foolish act.

It was interesting, Thomas mused, to watch someone think. He'd had opportunity in recent weeks to observe Mrs. Carson at it and come to appreciate the inner workings of her mind as something akin to a finely-made clock. There was a precision there, and a complexity as there was with all perfectly tuned instruments. He had watched her weigh up the advantages and disadvantages of confiding in him almost as though she were solving a mathematical equation. He saw a similar process unfolding now behind Edna's eyes, although the mechanisms there were somewhat cruder.

"I had nought to do with Lord Bracken." For all the consternation his words must have caused her, she spoke calmly. "There was a maid he was involved with. Surely Michael Hambly told you _that_."

 _So he had_ , Thomas thought, remembering the sour first footman. But then, Michael had been wrong.

"And Mr. Branson seduced me," Edna went on boldly, "and Mrs. Hughes sacked _me_ for it. She has more regard for the family than you do, apparently. That's how those people work. You've just said it yourself."

Thomas nodded appreciatively. "Cheeky," he said. "You _are_ clever. I'm glad you brought up the maid. Leah Close," he added. "That was her name. You see, that reminds me of the other strand in this complicated web of yours. Mr. Green."

A little line creased her forehead. Once more it might have been a natural reaction of confusion in the face of an innocent person. Here though ... was it the concern of someone implicated?

"Who?"

He laughed sharply and ignored her question. "Did you know about Mr. Green and his predilection for assaulting women? Or was the knowledge of ill-doings all on his side?"

"What are you on about?"

They stared at each for a long moment. Thomas hesitated. It was at least possible that she was genuinely bewildered on this point.

"No," he decided. "If you'd known, it'd have been him in the tight position, not you." She was looking at him as though he were a sideshow attraction. "Your friend Mr. Green," he reiterated.

She scoffed. "He wasn't my friend."

"I've been to Chesley Park. Remember?" he chided her. "I know better. Well, he attacked women, Mr. Green did. Leah Close at Chesley Park. Anna Bates at Downton. And a few others besides. He was a nasty piece of work in more ways than one. A rapist. A blackmailer." He paused. "See, I know about that, too."

"And he wasn't just blackmailing a hapless footman for his paltry pennies a week, was he?" Thomas went on relentlessly, though he maintained a solemn tone. "He knew about you and Lord Bracken. _And_ about Mr. Branson. I know that because I ran into him when I was listening in on you, too, that morning in the Great Hall."

Was that a telltale flicker in her eyes? Her impassive countenance was giving way to an impatient sullenness. She shifted in irritation.

"And then there was _his_ strange death, falling into the street from a crowded pavement in Piccadilly."

"Really." She was beginning to bristle.

"Yeah. An _accident_. So they thought at first. Only then witnesses came forward. Now the police are interested. They think it's murder. Fortunately - for you - they think it's our Anna who did it." He snorted derisively at that. " _Anna_. Thing is, I'm not unhappy to let them continue to think it's her. I've never liked her. And it would be a right pleasure to see Bates destroyed by it." He smiled knowingly at her. They had come together over a little conspiracy against the Bateses, so she would accept his sentiments here as genuine. "All I'm interested in is my own welfare," he added. "We could help each other." He smiled ingratiatingly.

Her face contorted in contempt. "I've had enough. More than enough. You know what I think of you."

He was not discouraged by her reaction. If she'd crumpled before his attack, he would have been disappointed. But he wasn't quite finished and he grabbed her arm before she could storm off, and leaned in to speak into her ear.

"You're angry. It's disconcerting to have your secrets unearthed, your well-laid plans threatened. You need time to think about it. I'll give you one week. If I don't have the first payment in my hands by Thursday morning, then there will be a letter in the afternoon post to Lord and Lady Edgerton. And once I've mailed it, I'll drop in on Downton's constable and tell him _everything I know_ about Mr. Green."

She wrenched her arm from his grasp even as he was half-flinging her from him.

"Don't test me," he called after her.

She paused only long enough to spit out, "I hope they _do_ sack you!"

"One week, Miss Braithwaite," he called after her.

Thomas watched her go. Then he drew out his cigarettes, carefully extracted one from the package and lit it. For a long moment he inhaled and blew artistic smoke rings, one of his lesser talents.

He'd made sure to get his bearings earlier as they'd driven out to Cross Harbour and now he took a moment to orient himself and then set out for town. As he walked, his mind drifted to the Carsons. They'd done a good job - _she'd_ done a good job, he corrected himself - in putting the pieces together, at least as far as identifying Edna as the culprit. But they'd have gotten no farther without him. Now they were poised on the edge of success.

"I might have missed my calling," he said aloud to himself. And then smiled at his own humour.

Ahead of him the sky was grey. He wondered absently if he could escape getting wet and why it was he hadn't thought to bring an umbrella.

 **On the Platform***

He was in a pub in Durham when the rain began. Glancing at his watch, he decided he had time for another pint. Evenings off were a rare thing for a servant and he'd only end up standing in the wet at the station. He welcomed the soothing brew, an antidote to the restlessness that had begun to settle on him. Although Cross Harbour was well behind him, he'd felt a heightened sense of alertness enveloping him. It was a measure of his success.

Ever since his trip to Chesley Park he had been convinced of Edna's guilt. The pieces fit together precisely. _The little grey cells_ , as Hercules Poirot might have said (for Thomas read detective novels, too), had done their work. But thus far they had been working on the outside of this puzzle and it had had the feel of an abstract exercise, however intellectually sound it seemed. The conversation with Edna had taken him inside the heart of the problem, though, and now he _knew_ they were right. She had lingered with him too long, listened to his allegations too carefully, played the role of the outraged innocent too perfectly. They could move forward now in certainty.

How they were to do that remained as yet a mystery all its own, but Thomas was not unduly worried. It was his experience that if you let something turn over in your mind long enough, then ideas eventually emerged. And his was not the only brain at work. He did not doubt that Mrs. Carson had long been considering this next stage.

He paid the bill and set out for the station, turning the collar of his jacket up against the elements, though it was a futile effort. The sky was dark with rain clouds and as he approached the platform, the downpour intensified. The few dozen people already there were much better prepared for the weather, almost all of them wearing rain slickers and huddled under umbrellas. The drabness of their clothing - it seemed that all was as grey as the sky - and of the dark shells of their umbrellas made Thomas think of pictures of ancient hulking stone monuments that he'd seen in a geographical magazine, unmoving and indistinct. The only exception were three young men at the far end who appeared oblivious to the weather and who were jostling and jeering at each other in a manner that made it clear they'd spent much of the afternoon in a pub.

Thomas made his way to that end of the platform that he might board the train immediately after it stopped. He wanted to get out of the wet as fast as possible and he peered down the tracks, willing the train to arrive. His timing was sound. Within a few minutes, the gratifying clanking and chuffing of the great iron horse reached his ears and in his eagerness, he stepped closer to the platform edge and stared down the line, as though urging it to hurry its approach, not that it would do him much good. He was soaked through by this point. Other impatient travellers began to crowd the line as well, filling in on either side of him and obliging the inebriated revellers to crowd him, elbows bumping his.

He cast them a disapproving look - not that any of them noticed it for they were now engaged in a shoving contest - and he turned away. Hardly had he turned his back when one of them slammed into him. Angry now he whirled around, turning too sharply in his disdain, and suddenly found himself off balance and pitching forward ... into the way of the oncoming train.

His limbs were flailing madly and then it was as though he were frozen in mid-air, crystallized by the cold light of the train's blinding headlamps. He could see nothing. But he knew he was about to die.

And then rough hands grabbed him and dragged him back, and the light passed him by with a stream of steaming steel that seemed to miss him by inches.

"What're ye thinkin', mate?"

"Had one too many, didja?"

"Ye might've been killed!"

He had recoiled from their touch only a moment ago and now clung to them, speechless in the magnitude of his hair's-breadth escape.

They bundled him into the first compartment and then got in with him. And there, in these close quarters, inhaling the fumes of their evening indulgence, their words swirled around them, their rescue exploit rousing them to boisterous claims and cheers of their own valour. Occasionally they remembered him, too, and pounded him on the shoulder and slapped him affectionately on the side of the head, calling him out for his foolishness, but proud of themselves nonetheless.

It was the kind of situation he normally abhorred, this close contact with these calloused youths who, in other circumstances, might have turned on him. But in this moment he could only be grateful to them. _Grateful_. _They had saved his life_! He had trod train platforms hundreds of times in his life and never given a thought to the potential hazard. _He could have been killed_!

Someone thrust a flask into his hands and he drank deeply from it. The whisky had a calming effect on his fraught nerves and helped to stave off the chill that swept him as a returning awareness of his physical state reminded him that he was soaked through.

With his senses recovering, the terror of what must have been only a split second of peril receded somewhat and his mind began to clear. He returned to the moment on the platform, to the foolish impatience that had led him to stray too close to the track, to his reflex recoil from these very men, to the momentary imbalance caused by a shoulder slamming into him when the leg on which he had been balancing gave way...

But it hadn't given way.

This came to him quite abruptly and he grasped through the haze for the memory of that instant just before his terrifying plunge. No, it hadn't given way, he realized. It was _pulled out from under him_.

Thomas spent the remainder of the journey to York in silence, smiling automatically but without any investment in the gesture at his eager rescuers who occasionally tried to corral him into a celebration of their heroic feat. At their destination, Thomas found himself oddly impatient at the slowness with which the train pulled up to the platform and almost abrupt in response to the good-natured warnings of his guardians about repeating his misadventure. He remembered himself enough to thank them again, but shook off their helping hands and bid them goodbye with relief.

He would _not_ be falling again from the platform into the path of a train because he had not done so in the first place. With this knowledge pounding inside his head, he looked around madly for a telephone box and was more than relieved when he finally sighted one, and hastily put a call through to Downton. He hoped to catch Mr. Carson before he went upstairs for the family's dinner. If not, there would be no car sent for him and it would be ages before he reached the Abbey and he was, uncharacteristically, bursting with a compulsion to confide his news, if only in part.

"Downton Abbey. Mr. Carson speaking."

 _Oh!_ He was glad to hear that familiar baritone!

"Mr. Carson!"

He did not realize the extent of the maelstrom of emotion to which the incident in Durham had had given rise until he heard his own overwrought tone reflected back to him in the butler's response.

"Mr. Barrow! Are you all right?"

"More than all right," Thomas said, almost breathlessly. "We've got her, Mr. Carson!"

There was a long pause at the other end of the telephone.

"I'll send a car."

 ***Author's Note:** With apologies to Agatha Christie for this. Let's call is an _hommage_ and accept that it is indeed consistent with Edna Braithwaite's methods.


	11. Chapter 11: Now What?

**CORNERING A KILLER**

 **Chapter 11 Now What?**

 **Thomas's Story**

"The thing is, even _I_ thought it was an accident."

It was late and they all had to get up early in the morning. But Barrow wasn't going to be able to sleep in his excited state and the Carsons would hardly have slept going to bed without hearing his story. So once more they were together in the butler's pantry, seated around the great desk. It was a mark of the intimacy that their collaboration had fostered that they were this time almost huddled together. There was neither more nor less privacy to be had in physical proximity, but it seemed appropriate.

"There I was on the platform and these lads were rough-housing a bit." He was thinking of them more favourably since they had pulled him back from the brink. "It was natural to think that I'd been thrown off balance when one of them backed into me. It only came to me when I was sitting on the train thinking about it. I _wasn't_ shoved. I was _tripped._ "

"But ... how could she ... or anyone have done it without being right there?" Carson did not doubt Thomas, but he couldn't quite picture the scene.

"It was an umbrella handle around my ankle," Barrow said, shaking his head. He knew it and yet still had a hard time believing it. "It kept going through my mind, how did I lose my balance? And then I ... _felt_ it again. The little jerk on my ankle at just the right moment. And that's how no one else saw it either. She didn't have to touch me."

"But surely someone saw _her_ , coming right up to you like that."

Barrow disagreed. "There were several people on the platform. It was the last train. And it was raining and they were all crowding up to the third class cars and folding up their umbrellas. Everybody was a great grey blur. I should have been more alert. I should have thought..."

"It's easy to say so in retrospect," Mrs. Carson said soothingly, nodding encouragingly at his glass of wine. He took her unspoken advice and sipped it. "And who would have expected her to act so ... precipitously."

"What a chance she took!" Mr. Carson was not a risk-taker by nature. Had he ever left anything to chance? Edna Braithwaite's boldness took his breath away.

"She has to take risks," his wife said meditatively. "She's already taken risks." And then she was looking contritely at Barrow. "We ought to have anticipated that." He waved away her concern. They none of them could have foreseen this.

"You might have seen her, though," Carson persisted.

"And what if I had? She'd just have made up some story about begging me to reconsider. If, that is, I saw her before I fell. And even so, even if I'd tripped and somehow _not_ been crushed by the train, I couldn't prove anything." Thomas paused and a sober demeanour descended on him. "I _can't_ prove anything. It was the perfect crime."

"Again," Mrs. Carson said grimly.

"Last time wasn't perfect," Carson interjected. "There were witnesses."

"Yes, and they've identified _Anna_."

"Point taken. But at least _we_ know now." Carson turned to the underbutler. "You've brought us along, Mr. Barrow. Well done."

"He's done more than that," Mrs. Carson said emphatically. "You've thrown out the bait, Thomas, and there's no going back on it now." Her uneasy gaze rested on him. "I hope we've done the right thing."

They all sipped their wine.

"Now, what?" Carson said into the silence.

"We wait."

"For what?"

"To see if she pays up," Barrow said simply. "Or not."

They all knew what that meant.

 **Anticipating Murder**

Knowing Mr. Barrow's story did not, in the end, ensure a quiet night.

"Where are you going?" Elsie asked. They'd gone to bed and by mutual agreement had decided to try to sleep. But it was going on twelve-thirty by the old alarm clock she'd had for years and which now sat on the little table on her side of the bed when she felt her husband getting to his feet. It was, perhaps, an unnecessary question as mid-night destinations were usually predictable. But she'd felt his restlessness ever since they'd turned out the lights, which only mirrored her own unease, and somehow discerned that something else was afoot.

"Tea," he said quietly into the darkness. "If we're going to be up, anyway, we might as well."

They'd never had tea in the middle of the night before. At least, not in bed. It might have been a pleasant novelty had it not been occasioned by their apprehensions. In his brief absence in the kitchen, Elsie turned on one of the side lamps and fluffed up the pillows, before settling into a comfortable position. When Charlie joined her, they sat for several minutes, trying to enjoy their tea and calm their troubled thoughts.

"That was just the thing," she said at last, hoping that her feelings would conform to the boldness of her words.

Charlie wasn't convinced. "You're worried."

She sighed. "Of course I'm worried. I never liked Edna, but I never thought her up to this, even when all the evidence pointed to her."

"It's hard to believe something so alarming about someone we know," he agreed. "And it's natural to be shocked. We don't - we ought not - to be so familiar with murderers."

"I know we wanted to prompt her to action," Elsie went on, not trying to hide her agitation now, "but ... It's clearly something that, to her, is dangerous enough to kill over. Or try to kill for, anyway. And we've lost control of events. She's already made one attempt. What's to stop her from slipping into Downton and poisoning his food?"

"That won't happen," Charlie said confidently. "It's not her _modus operandi_ , is it?"

Elsie's tea cup clanked onto the saucer. "I beg your pardon?" When he only looked puzzled, she said, " _Modus operandi_? What's that?"

He frowned. "It's Latin."

The exasperated noise this elicited from her brought a ghost of a smile to his face, in spite of their conversation. That sounded more like her.

"For 'way of doing something,'" he added helpfully, and just a little mischievously.

"I'm familiar with the term," Elsie said drily. "But it sounds very American. What have you been reading?"

"Nothing," he said, shifting guiltily as he had recently perused a low-brow pulp fiction magazine Andy had left lying around. "What I meant was," he went on hurriedly, "she's killed once that we know of and now tried and failed to kill someone else. I don't think we can add Lord Bracken here. And both times she's done it in a way that could be called an accident, as Mr. Barrow can attest. Poison is trickier. It's much more likely to have been murder and bring on a formal investigation. She won't want to get her hands dirty that way."

Elsie frowned at him a little, wondering at this sudden outpouring of information on crime. She accepted the logic of what he said, but was hardly reassured. "But what are her options here? There aren't any busy roads or trains running through the estate that she could push Mr. Barrow into."

"No, but there's a roof he can be pushed off of. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because," she said, reaching over to take his hand, "I didn't know you thought about such things."

"Well, no more than you!" he said, a little indignantly. "Like you, I've been trying to imagine scenarios so that we might _plan_ our counter-maneuvres. And the roof is a possibility. There are some dangerous spots, hence the recent spate of repairs."

"But how would she get him up to the roof?" Elsie demanded. "First she has to get _into_ the house herself. And then up to the roof? With Mr. Barrow? Won't she know that he knows about the attempt in Durham? Won't she think he must be on his guard with her even more so now? She'll hardly expect that she can slip into Downton unobserved by anyone else, entice Mr. Barrow up to the roof, and then hope he'll turn his back while she pushes him off!" She shook her head. "It just doesn't make sense. I'll believe that she'll change her methods before she'll try something so outlandish."

"As you said, we have no control." The very thought pained him, but he was distracted by the worry lines on her brow and added, half-jokingly in an effort to dispel them, "Well, _I'm_ not going to taste his food for him."

She looked wearily at him and then reached out to caress his face. He pressed his lips to her fingers.

"Don't worry," she assured him. "I wouldn't let you."

 **Waiting**

The several days that followed were uneventful both in terms of the usual goings-on at Downton Abbey and the more specific developments regarding Edna Braithwaite. The Carsons found the waiting excruciating.

"And I'm usually a patient man," Mr. Carson said in passing during one of their muted discussions in the passage. He was so distracted that he missed his wife's raised eyebrows.

On Tuesday morning, he distributed the post as usual at breakfast, shaking his head almost imperceptibly at his wife as he did so and passing over Mr. Barrow, for whom there was nothing. Again.

"I'm beginning to dislike having two posts a day," he said to her later, idling by her chair as she sat at her desk in the housekeeper's sitting room. "I keep hoping something will come, and then I'm disappointed when it doesn't. And then I remember the implications for Mr. Barrow if she decides to act instead of pay and..." He let his sentence finish itself.

"I know," Mrs. Carson said, nodding in understanding. She frowned a little and looked up at him. "Have you noticed that Mr. Barrow doesn't seem affected at all? He seems almost ... I don't know, _exhilarated_ these last few days."

Carson made a dismissive sound. He appreciated how Barrow's involvement in their inquiries had significantly advanced their position, but his opinion of the man had not fundamentally changed. "Well, he would. He thinks he's so much smarter than she. _And_ there's nothing like escaping death to make you cocky."

It occurred to Mrs. Carson that human nature was a very strange thing. "I would have thought it would make for more sombre reflection," she said.

"You think that way because _you're_ a woman," her husband told her airily. "The thing to do when you're worrying about Mr. Barrow, love," he dropped his voice a little on the term of endearment, and glanced over his shoulder self-consciously, "is to remember where this started - with _Anna_." And he held out a hand to her that she might take it and be reassured by his touch.

"I know," she said softly, tightening her hand in his. "There's Mr. Barrow on the one side and Anna on the other. And _Mr._ Bates as well. As she declines, he smoulders more dangerously. I keep waiting for him to explode."

"Well, let's hope we solve this thing before that happens."

They agreed on that.

 **And More Waiting**

When there was nothing in the post on Thursday morning Mr. Carson was frustrated, but Mrs. Carson was downcast.

"Maybe we've come to the end of the road on this," she said. "What if she does nothing at all?"

"Well, she won't do _nothing_ ," he said emphatically. "Because whether in our cause or not, I feel certain Mr. Barrow will carry through with his threat to expose her scheming and she can be certain of that. So she will have to act, one way or the other."

She couldn't argue with that.

And then there it was, in the second post on Thursday afternoon. Carson reluctantly handed the note over to Barrow. He had no choice. It _was_ addressed to the underbutler. And Barrow, in a determinedly casual way, only glanced at the envelope and tucked it into his pocket, and then finished his tea as though nothing was afoot. But he was not going to play any games with _them_ , Carson decided. As Barrow got up from the table, the butler moved to obstruct his departure.

"In my pantry, after dinner," he intoned, giving Barrow a meaningful look.

The underbutler nodded curtly and then stepped around Mr. Carson and was gone.

"I've never seen him attack his duties so zealously," Carson remarked sarcastically to his wife.

They met as arranged at the end of the evening.

"Well?" Mr. Carson had always been the impatient one.

Barrow had hardly closed the door before this demand was made of him. He held up the envelope and from it extracted several pound notes. "Success!" he declared, and glanced at each of the others in turn. His own smile was not mirrored in their sober countenances.

"What did she say, then?" Carson pressed him. He was seated behind his desk, his wife to one side, Barrow across from him. He leaned forward as he spoke to emphasize the urgency of the situation.

"Nothing."

It was all a bit of a let-down.

"What could she say?" Barrow said, with a muted note of exasperation. "'Thanks for the loan'? Every month for the rest of her life?"

"All right. So she's paid. Now what?"

Barrow stared at the butler for a moment and then his gaze slid slowly over to the housekeeper. Mr. Carson was no plotter. Mrs. Carson was another story.

"Well, we knew it last week when she tripped you on the platform, Mr. Barrow, but this is further confirmation. We have our killer. She wouldn't be paying otherwise."

" _You_ know it. And _I believe_ it," Mr. Carson said, addressing his wife. "But we're still nowhere in practical terms that will mean anything to Inspector Viner." He gave the name the contemptuous inflection that the family used to speak of the investigating officer from Scotland Yard.

"Now we have to trap her in the act," Barrow said mildly, his eyes narrowing as though he were contemplating plans to do so.

"You mean the act of killing you," Mr. Carson said bluntly. "Your casualness about your own life chills my blood, Mr. Barrow. The thing is, if she's paying, she may have decided _not_ to act. After all," he glanced at Mrs. Carson, "as you said the other night, how would she get into Downton to do the deed? She can't lurk around the village hoping Mr. Barrow will present himself at the very moment someone is speeding down the High Street.

"I think she's buying time," Mrs. Carson said slowly. "Edna is not the kind of person to let herself be pushed around. Like us, she can't quite figure out how to go forward. She had her opportunity there on the platform and then was thwarted. She'll need to plan better the next time."

"Perhaps she was frightened by her failure," Carson mused. He suppressed the inclination to reach for Elsie's hand in this moment. He knew she had been quite shaken by Barrow's close call. But Carson did not want to make a demonstration of his affections in front of the underbutler, even to comfort his wife.

"She didn't _fail_ ," Barrow corrected him. "She almost _succeeded_. I think it'll have emboldened her. But I agree with Mrs. Carson. It'll take her some time to cook up a way to put me in a vulnerable position."

"What we need is an opportunity," Mrs. Carson said and then shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barrow. I don't mean to sound so cold-hearted about you."

"I knew what I was getting into," he said calmly.

She nodded, accepting his assurance. "We can't very well send you up there again, not now. It's too dangerous and she'll get the wind up if we're obvious about it."

"And we won't be there to witness it, either," her husband added. "Which, of course, is the point of it all."

"Somehow we'll have to get her here." Her brows knit with perturbation at this. "But how?"

"We've come this far," Carson said soothingly, momentarily more concerned with his wife's frustration than with the situation itself. "Your 'little grey cells' will come up something." He had, in the course of this investigation, developed a greater appreciation for the capacity of her 'little grey cells' than ever he had before.

She smiled at his allusion and they exchanged glances that reflected a warmth and intimacy well beyond the simple humourous comment.

Slightly nauseated even by this subtle glimpse of the Carsons' personal life, Barrow sought to restore the direction of the conversation.

"I think an opportunity will present itself," he said. "We just have to wait."

Carson was distracted. "You're a cool one."

Barrow grinned. "This is like fishing, Mr. Carson. You know about that." He gestured to the stuffed fish on the sidetable. No one knew the story behind it but it had been there as long as anyone who worked at Downton could remember. Over the years more than one maid had complained about having to dust it. "You play out your line and then you let the trout come to you. Patience."

"When have _you_ ever been trout fishing?" Carson said disdainfully. Barrow, he knew, had grown up in Manchester, far from the lakes and streams of the Downton estate where Carson had fished in his boyhood.

"Never," Barrow replied, not at all put off by the butler's scorn. "But I have done _this_ before. Trust me. A situation will present itself."

After he had gone, Carson turned to his wife. "Did he just admit to blackmail and then ask me to trust him?"

She took his hand and patted it, as though to comfort him against alarming reality. "Don't tell me you're shocked."

"I'm not," he said stiffly. "But we've come to a sad state when this is how we must do things."

She sighed. "We must use the instruments we have, Charlie. And we're fortunate in having such a very good one as Mr. Barrow."

He remained sceptical.

 **A Catalyst to Action**

Waiting was frustrating. Not knowing when or where or how their suspect might strike was painful. The strain began to show. Junior members of staff noted how Mr. Carson was more irritable of late and wondered whether Mrs. Carson's cooking skills had fallen off again. Mrs. Carson herself was more sharp-tongued than ever, giving credence to speculation about a marital rift. But there was no explaining Mr. Barrow's heightened sensitivity to sudden movements. Miss Baxter watched him worriedly, apprehensive that he might have embarked on some new medical regimen that was disagreeing with him.

"Is there no way for us to precipitate some action?" Mr. Carson demanded impatiently of his wife at increasingly annoying intervals. He knew it was a futile question and that it irritated her, but asking acted as a stress release valve, if an imperfect and short-lasting one.

There was no telling how long this might have gone on for there was no predicting Edna Braithwaite, beyond a conviction that she would _eventually_ act, had not other forces intervened. Although he could not suppress his own rising uneasiness with the uncertainty of it all, Barrow had been confident that something would turn up and he was right, although it came in the unlikely form of Inspector Viner and Mr. Bates.

On a Tuesday morning, two and a half weeks after the compromising payment had come in the mail, Barrow emerged from the wine cellar where he had been shelving the latest shipment from the family's supplier in London. There was a time when Mr. Carson had handled every aspect of wine management, largely because this was a critical element of the butler's duties but at least in part because he had little faith in his footmen attending to this function with the care required. Special considerations applied to Barrow. Mr. Carson had a long memory when it came to the former footman's pre-war thefts from the wine cellar. But even Mr. Carson acknowledged that an underbutler had to have some responsibilities that set him apart from a mere footman and the wine-stealing _had_ been a long time ago.

More vigilant even than he was ordinarily, Barrow noticed an atmosphere in the kitchen as he came in to get a cup of tea.

"What is it?" he asked, his eyes darting from Daisy to Mrs. Patmore and back to Daisy again. He was more likely to get an informative response from the assistant cook. Mrs. Patmore did not always indulge his curiosity. But she surprised him by responding.

"Mrs. Carson has just gone up to the library. With Anna. Inspector Viner's here again."

"What?!" Barrow spread his arms in a gesture of exasperation, evoking a small smile from Daisy, for he held a bottle of wine in each hand. His sympathy for Anna had not expanded, but it wasn't necessary to be one of her defenders to find the Scotland Yard inspector's meaningless visits provocative in the extreme.

"How much more of this could anyone be expected to take?" Mrs. Patmore mused, shaking her head.

"What's going on?"

The three of them turned toward the passage where Mr. Bates had just come in from the yard. Although the Carsons had undertaken their investigation for the purpose of relieving Anna, Bates's mental health had always been an additional consideration. Where Anna suffered her sorrows in subdued depression, his response to the harassment by the iniquitous Inspector Viner had taken the form of a brooding hostility, his temperament, as Mrs. Carson had once observed, "volcanic."

Now his dark eyes, flashing with a barely-contained anger, shifted from one to the other of the kitchen's inhabitants who had all taken on a semblance reminiscent of a deer in a car's headlamps.

"Tell me," he said firmly, advancing into the room in a way that could only be described as threatening, although neither Mrs. Patmore nor Daisy were intimidated and Barrow had never turned at hair at Mr. Bates's glowering.

Mrs. Patmore put down the butcher knife she was using to chop stewing beef for the servants' supper. And then, hesitating two seconds more before replying, she not very subtly brushed the knife beneath some dish cloths beside her work space. "It's only ... Well, Inspector Viner is here again, Mr. Bates. Apparently he wants to..." She spoke in a cajoling tone, hoping to defuse the valet's rising fury, but to no avail.

"That bastard!" Bates fumed and strode across the kitchen to the passage leading to the servants' staircase.

He was inhibited by his own physical limitations and Barrow, imagining how it might be if Bates were to burst into the library in this frame of mind, stepped in his path. "He's just here to annoy, you know that," he said soothingly, appreciating the irony of _him_ of all people looking out for Mr. Bates. "It would be best if you..."

But Bates wasn't listening. He brought both his arms up and thrust them forcefully against Barrow's chest, knocking the underbutler hard back into the counter and then stepping around him, with more agility than he usually demonstrated, and storming off in the direction of upstairs.

Barrow had not anticipated this. Mr. Bates had attempted to bully him on occasion and had even, once, grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into a wall, but there had always been a sense of holding back there. This time Bates had shown no restraint. Nor had he given any consideration to the fact that Barrow still held the two bottles which slipped from his grasp and shattered and splashed everywhere.

"Ow!"

Mrs. Patmore and Daisy rushed to his side but not without caution for the spray of glass shards.

"Are you all right, Mr. Barrow?" Daisy reached out to him first, helping him to regain his feet.

"Yes. Ow!" he said again, pressing a hand to the back of his head which had banged up against a cupboard.

"You'd better go after him."

The grimness of Mrs. Patmore's word electrified both Daisy and Barrow.

"Like that?" Daisy said, gesturing to Barrow's now red wine-stained livery.

"That's the least of it," Barrow declared, exchanging glances with Mrs. Patmore. He would have liked to put some ice on his head, but he knew she was right.

"We'll take care of this," Mrs. Patmore said, already looking for a broom. "You get on."

He did, dashing into the passage and taking the steps two at a time. Mr. Bates, who ought to have been slowed by his infirmity, was already well ahead of him.

 **Lady Mary Intervenes**

It was a tense scene in the library.

Mr. Carson had come downstairs to fetch Anna and invited Mrs. Carson to accompany them, thinking she might act as an ameliorating influence in these disagreeable circumstances. She had readily agreed. Anna's own reaction was one of chilling numbness. Over her head the Carsons' exchanged worried glances. Every time the Inspector came to Downton the immediate thought in every mind was that _this time_ he would _finally_ make an arrest.

"But surely he would come downstairs to do that," Carson murmured to his wife as they passed through the green baize door.

In the library itself, Lady Mary stood with Inspector Viner and the local constable, Sergeant Willis. As the hostess, Lady Mary might, in other circumstances, have invited the men to sit. But she had had her own run-ins with the Scotland Yard man and was in no mood to extend even fundamental courtesies to him. In lieu of any real power, it was all she could do.

Sergeant Willis was as affable as usual. Inspector Viner affected a more business-like demeanour, brusque and no-nonsense. He did not wait for Lady Mary to initiate the conversation when the Carsons and Anna entered the room, immediately addressing himself to Anna as he took a seat without asking. Lady Mary noted these _faux pas_ but fumed silently, biding her time.

"Mrs. Bates," the Inspector began coolly. "Please sit."

Lady Mary might remain impassive about this, but Mr. Carson's eyebrows soared and he was only prevented from addressing it by a sharp look from his wife. As Anna took her place on the sofa, Mrs. Carson moved to stand beside the butler, perhaps to forestall any possible outbursts from him.

Both of them noticed the acid look on Lady Mary's face as the inspector ignored her altogether. Unbidden, she sat beside Anna and channelled her irritation by glaring at the police officer. He remained wholly oblivious to her.

"Now," he began, a patronizing note in his cool voice, "I've been reviewing supplementary details of your movements on the day of Mr. Green's death and would like you to tell me again what you did that morning, there being still no corroboration by any of the staff at the Belgrave Square home of Lady Painswick of your activities."

Anna sighed, but it was Lady Mary who spoke.

"What utter foolishness! I think this is harassment, plain and simple!"

Inspector Viner's gaze flickered her way. "I don't care what you think," he said blandly.

Mrs. Carson quickly grabbed her husband's arm, preventing a reaction from him. He would take pleasure from tossing the inspector out of the Abbey into the gravel, but that would get none of them anywhere.

"If you could just..."

The door to the library flew open and Mr. Bates burst in, drawing everyone's attention. Anna's eyes went round in horror and for the first time in weeks, her pallid cheeks flushed with colour.

"Mr. Bates!"

But Bates ignored his wife. He moved aggressively across the room, his cane swinging wildly. To those among them who cared for him, alarm was the preeminent emotion. Sergeant Willis, who had been idling to one side in the knowledge that his presence here was entirely ornamental, suddenly roused himself. Inspector Viner, however, only smirked and remained in his seat.

"You!" Bates seethed. "I have had _enough_ of your bullying and intimidation and I'm going to put an end to it!"

Bates was a physically solid man, broad-shouldered and powerful, his upper body strength enhanced over the years in compensation for the weakness of his leg. Robert Crawley knew part of the story of his past and Anna a great deal more, but only the suggestion of a shadowed past had given other members of the Downton family reason to believe there was a potential for violence there. The conviction among them of his innocence in the matter of his first wife and, indeed, with regard to the insidious Mr. Green, lay in a faith in his highly-principled character, rather than in doubts about his capacity to kill. And when it came to the protection of his wife or loyalty to Lord Grantham, there was no certainty the one would not triumph over the other.

Perhaps seeing a murderous intent in the man's eyes, Mr. Carson shook off his wife's restraining hand and moved to intercept the irate man. Barrow's lack of fear, where Mr. Bates was concerned, had made him incautious and thereby vulnerable to the valet's explosion. The butler, who was not inexperienced with the volatility of men - upstairs and down - under the influence of anger or drink, was not so complacent. He flung himself at Bates and grappled with him, knowing that were the valet to lay a hand on the inspector, no mercy would be shown.

There were cries of alarm from the three women, as the two men scuffled. Inspector Viner, belatedly getting to his feet, made no effort to intervene and, indeed, held out a hand to prevent the sergeant from joining the fray. The more fraught the situation, the more likely the dam was to break in favour of a confession from Mrs. Bates.

Mr. Carson had tangled with some men in his time but Mr. Bates proved remarkably able, despite his handicap. It was therefore, of some relief, when another liveried figure appeared and threw himself into the scrum. Between them, the butler and the underbutler managed to wrestle Bates into submission, though it was a hard-fought few minutes and by the time Bates surrendered to their combined weight and strength, all three were breathing labouriously.

"Mr. Barrow! Are you all right?" It was Mrs. Carson who drew everyone's attention to the vibrant red stairs on his starched shirt.

"Red wine," he gasped, still catching his breath. "Mr. Bates knocked me over," he added, seeing a reproving look forming on Mr. Carson's face.

"Mrs. Bates, how much longer are you going to let this go on?"

The patronizing voice of Inspector Viner intruded on them all.

"I'm not going to let _this_ go on," Lady Mary declared firmly, turning on the policeman. "Either make an arrest or get out of this house. We'll have our solicitor file a formal complaint if you don't."

To everyone's surprise, Viner only smiled smugly and, with a gesture to Sergeant Viner, withdrew without another word.

"Son of a bitch" Bates snarled, still overwrought.

"Mr. Bates!" Not even the police officer's pressure could banish all sense of propriety from Anna.

"I'm with Mr. Bates on that," Barrow said unexpectedly, relaxing his hold on the valet and taking out a handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his face. He did not often engage in fisticuffs.

Mr. Carson let go more slowly, but when he did his usually imposing form slumped a little and he inhaled deeply, trying to regain his equilibrium. Mrs. Carson went to his side. It was not the moment for an overt display of concern, but she rubbed his back comfortingly anyway.

"Why can't he just _leave us alone_!" Bates demanded, his eyes still flashing. To his left, Barrow was attempting to tidy up his disheveled uniform and on the other side, Mr. Carson was self-consciously brushing his hair back into place. But Bates was much too agitated to worry about how he looked, although he stood unsteadily, having dropped his cane in the mêlée. It was Mrs. Carson who retrieved it for him.

"Anna." Lady Mary's voice was a balm of calm, more a technique of control than a true expression of her feelings. "Why don't you take Bates down to the servants' hall and have a cup of tea, the two of you. I think we can all appreciate Bates's feelings with regard to that creature Viner, but the excitement is over now. Barrow, perhaps you'd like to get cleaned up. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, would you remain, please?"

Lady Mary waited until the other three had cleared the room and closed the door behind them, Barrow glancing back resentfully as he did so. Mrs. Carson gave him a sympathetic look. He was as involved in this as any of them and had a right to know what was happening. She would report in full to him when they went downstairs.

The external air of _sang froid_ that Lady Mary had displayed before the larger party gave way to impatience and irritation in the more intimate company of the Carsons.

"What a _horrid_ man!" she exclaimed. "I agree with Barrow on that. I don't blame Bates one bit."

"Nor do I," Mrs. Carson agreed, "though it does no good. Poor man," she added sympathetically.

"Well, we can't let this continue," Lady Mary said briskly. "We need to do something. What progress have you made with your investigation?"

Though he was as engaged in the matter as either of the other two, indeed more so than Lady Mary, Mr. Carson felt an impulse to smile indulgently as Lady Mary directed this query to his wife. They'd had their ups and downs, Elsie and Lady Mary, but he did not doubt that in this gesture his wife was getting the respect she so often thought lacking from lady of the house.

Mrs. Carson gave her the details. "So we're fairly certain of our quarry now, but we've no way to prompt her to act. It's an invidious position to be in, but we must wait for her to take the initiative."

It was only the conclusion they had repeated endlessly to themselves downstairs for the past few weeks. Not even Mr. Barrow had challenged it. Lady Mary, however, appeared to have other ideas.

"But I don't agree," she said bluntly.

"Beg pardon, my lady?" Mr. Carson said quizzically.

"I don't agree," she repeated. "Anna is a wraith and Bates has already lost control once. We may lose them both if we just wait."

"But..., my lady, there is nothing to do _but_ wait," Mrs. Carson repeated with more patience than she felt. Clearly if it was possible to act they would have done so.

Lady Mary shrugged impatiently. "But there is. What you need is to provide Edna Braithwaite with an opportunity to attempt to kill Mr. Barrow."

Without looking at each other, the Carsons each shivered a little at the cold-blooded manner with which Lady Mary spoke.

"All we have to do is get her to Downton," Lady Mary went on. "That's not complicated."

"We can hardly invite her here, my lady," Mr. Carson murmured, wondering a little at Lady Mary's inability to see the problem.

"Of course not," she said smoothly, looking at him. "But _I_ can invite the Edgertons for an intimate house party and _they_ can bring Edna. I'll just make sure to dress the occasion up enough that Lady Edgerton cannot do without her maid."

Now the Carsons did exchange glances. "I thought you hardly knew them," Carson said cautiously. "Won't that look suspicious?"

"No." And Lady Mary smiled almost impishly. "The Edgertons, it turns out, are very good friends with the Sinderbys. And the Sinderbys are practically family now, so...it can be accomplished with subtlety." She was pleased with herself.

"How did you discover that, my lady?" Mr. Carson asked, marvelling at his favourite's suggestion. Mrs. Carson rolled her eyes. The other two didn't notice.

"I spent an entire afternoon with them, Carson. We had to talk about something. Getting them and her here will be the easy part. Getting Edna to act and then preventing her from being successful, _those_ will be the challenges. But that's for you two to sort out. I'll be very busy entertaining that weekend." Lady Mary paused. "What do you think?"

It was Mrs. Carson's turn to acknowledge the other woman's shrewdness. "Doing nothing has got us all on edge," she admitted. "And this allows us to regain _some_ of the initiative, at least. I think you should proceed, my lady. I'll tell Mr. Barrow."

Securing the housekeeper's support for her plan pleased Lady Mary, but her satisfaction quickly faded. "I don't like the idea of imperiling Barrow any more than you do, Mrs. Carson. But this is the scenario we have."

"I hope it works," Mr. Carson said heavily.

Mrs. Carson caught his eye. "It must."


	12. Chapter 12: And It Begins

**CORNERING A KILLER**

 **Chapter 12 And It Begins**

 **The Suspect Arrives**

Late Friday afternoon the guests arrived in a whirl of splendour that in any other circumstances would have pleased Mr. Carson. He enjoyed the production of a house party, even one of a modest size. This one included only the Sinderbys and Lord and Lady Edgerton. The Edgerton son and heir was not with the party. From the perspective of the Downton conspirators, this was irrelevant. They were interested only in Lady Edgerton's maid.

The Carsons met incidentally in the downstairs passage as Barrow led a parade of maids and valets, encumbered with luggage, to the servants' staircase.

"They've come with a full complement," Carson noted, looking away deliberately so as not to set eyes on Edna Braithwaite just yet. He knew in the deep recesses of his heart that he was the weak link in the chain, the one most likely to tip their hand by expressing in look, if not word, his feelings. But he knew, too, that he could not - and would not - reveal his revulsion. Lives were in the balance.

Mrs. Carson, standing as she was facing the oncoming traffic, could not escape a glimpse of their quarry and issued a "Good day, Miss Braithwaite," with a calm disinterest that her husband much admired. There was a smug aspect to Edna's demeanor, or so it seemed to the housekeeper. She had been unceremoniously dismissed and, were it not for the business with Barrow, might be enjoying whatever discomfort her presence might cause.

"Thank God Mr. Branson is in America," Mr. Carson mused, which was possibly the first time he'd thought that a good thing, usually equating immigration to the United States with banishment to a penal colony.

Mrs. Carson was less perturbed by old grievances than by the prospect of harbouring a known killer beneath Downton's roof. She'd been in similar circumstances before with Edna Braithwaite's erstwhile victim, Mr. Green. She'd known of his assault on Anna and yet honoured her promise to Anna to remain silent. This had led to at least one very uncomfortable weekend when Lord Gillingham had descended on the house with his odious valet in tow and she, and Anna, too, had let on nothing. Mrs. Carson would do anything to protect Anna, but it gnawed at her conscience that she had let the valet move freely where there were any number of young women, upstairs and down, upon whom he might have preyed. Hindsight was always so damning.

Edna was, admittedly, a different case. She did not kill indiscriminately. Barrow was her target. But Mrs. Carson was not at ease exposing the rest of the staff to even a minimal risk. What if someone got in her way? What if she made a mistake? The possibilities were too terrible to contemplate. Risking Barrow's life was troubling enough and his eyes were wide open.

"At least we have room for them all," she said, referring to the guest staff, falling back on the mundane to keep her uneasiness at bay.

Edna Braithwaite had left Downton at odds with all the downstairs staff. Mrs. Carson - Mrs. Hughes as she had then been - had called her bluff in the matter of Mr. Branson and then fired her. Mr. Carson had little to do with the maids, but had had a hand in her first dismissal from Downton. She had never been anything but contemptuous of him, if only behind his back. She had actively intrigued against the Bateses, colluding with Barrow to do so, and then fallen out with him just before she left for the second time. It was thus not surprising that she had little to say to any of them, though she did make it a point, when they sat down to dinner together, to congratulate the Carsons on their marriage, which made for an awkward moment.

"How wonderful for you!" she gushed, with an insincerity that was apparent to the senior Downton staff and which drew a surprised look from Lord Edgerton's valet. Daisy, who did not always catch the subtle nuances of another's speech, stared at her open-mouthed, anticipating a rebuke from Mr. Carson, until Mrs. Patmore elbowed her back to reality.

Mr. Carson did respond with a disdainful stare. He did not encourage conversation about his marriage in the servants' hall.

Fearing that her husband might say something untoward, Mrs. Carson managed a polite "Thank you."

"And do you live out now, like Mr. and Mrs. Bates?"

This probing question drew baleful looks from both Mr. Carson and Mr. Bates. Bates had been indifferent to Edna Braithwaite until she had badmouthed and misrepresented Anna to Her Ladyship. That she conspired with Barrow to do so had only heightened his antagonism toward her. Mr. Carson tried to convey with a glare that this subject was _not_ a fit one for conversation at the servants' table.

Mrs. Carson thought Edna impudent, but saw in the query an opportunity. Edna was not just making conversation. She was looking for information and it suited Mrs. Carson to give it to her. "We do," she said pleasantly, ignoring her husband's affronted look. "Upstairs Miss Baxter is now in charge of the women's side. And the keeper of the keys." She gave Her Ladyship's maid an acknowledging nod.

Miss Baxter, who still felt a little ill at ease with the responsibility this vested in her - especially given her past - started nervously at this statement, though she managed a weak smile in Edna's direction. "Please let me know if I can be of any service," she murmured.

Edna, Mrs. Carson noticed, cast her eyes down and smiled a knowing little smile to herself.

"What is the staffing situation at Canningford Grange?" Mr. Carson would not ordinarily have engaged a visiting valet on a matter that was clearly within a butler's jurisdiction, but he had his own agenda. "Any talk of cutting back?"

Barrow shot an uncomfortable look at the butler and caught Edna Braithwaite staring at him.

"Not at all, Mr. Carson," the valet replied heartily. "We've a full complement."

"Any movement in prospect?" Carson asked this delicately. He did not wish to give the impression that he was asking on his own behalf.

"His Lordship is a difficult man," the valet said candidly, his remark something that might have elicited a rebuke from Mr. Carson in different circumstances, "but he pays well..."

" _Very_ well," Lady Sinderby's maid put in.

"...and no one wants to give up a good job in service these days. They're increasingly hard to come by, what with them all learning how to dress themselves!" The valet meant this as a joke and laughed. Few echoed him at this table.

"The world of domestic service is shrinking," Barrow said unexpectedly, with a dark look at Mr. Carson.

"It is indeed," Carson said, turning a grave expression on the underbutler. "It may become necessary for those made redundant to consider another line of work altogether."

The brittle tension between butler and underbutler was convincing if only because it was rooted in reality and had a history already at Downton. This undercurrent was with them later when they managed a moment together at the end of the evening when the valets and maids had gone up to see their gentlemen and ladies off to bed. Only then could they be certain that Edna would be otherwise occupied.

"It's very different with her bold as brass right in front of our eyes," Mrs. Carson said, finally able to express her own revulsion, as they closed themselves in the butler's pantry. "I'm quite uneasy with her upstairs and me not there to watch her. A cat among the pigeons."

"Steady on," her husband said encouragingly, his eyes shining as he gazed at her. "Your instincts have been right all along. Let's trust to them now." Perhaps he caught the look of distaste in the underbutler's face. In any case he cleared his throat and returned to the specific subject. " _I'm_ uneasy that we have no control over events."

"It is the nature of the beast," Barrow said slowly, in a voice that seemed unnaturally calm. "We must wait for her to act."

"And hope that we're around to witness it," Mr. Carson said darkly.

" _And_ thwart it," Mrs. Carson added. Then she sighed. "We must lie in the bed we've made." And then she gave her husband a thoughtful look. "Perhaps you ought to spend the night in Mr. Barrow's room, just in case."

"What?!"

"There's no need!"

The two men spoke together, and then glanced at each other in uncomfortable alliance. Neither of them could embrace this idea.

"She won't act the first night," Barrow went on hastily. "She'll want to get her bearings, examine the opportunities, collect information. This won't be a spontaneous act like Piccadilly or Durham."

"You can't be certain," Mrs. Carson protested. "We must take all precautions."

"I think Mr. Barrow is right," Mr. Carson said grimly, "and I'm not just saying that to avoid your...company," he added, with a nod to Barrow. "But Mrs. Carson has a point, as well. Edna may seize an opportunity as it presents itself. So mind how you walk on the stairs, Mr. Barrow."

"I won't sleep tonight," Mrs. Carson said as Barrow left the room.

"None of us will," her husband intoned.

 **Sleepless at Downton**

"He'll be fine," Charlie said into the darkness after and hour and more of restlessness on Elsie's part.

"You don't know that." She spoke sharply and then her hand was searching out his. "I'm sorry, Charlie. For that and for keeping you awake. It does no good to fret."

His hand tightened over hers. It was not at all surprising that she should agonize over Mr. Barrow this night. He had long known that she worried about them all.

"Do you know," he said, by way of a distraction, "when we started this I was worried about implicating another young woman who had been hurt by ... the valet. As much as I wanted Anna to be free of it, it still seemed wrong for any woman ... in that situation ... to be held accountable for his death. For that reason I'm glad it's turned out to be Edna Braithwaite. We may proceed against her without any complications of conscience."

"Have we bitten off more than we can chew?"

He heard the wavering in her voice. They were, as she had noted earlier, into it now and there was no way back. What she needed was not a way out, but reassurance about going forward. He turned on the light and then raised himself on one elbow that he might give more authority to his words.

"None of that now, my love! You've done a masterful job in this case, Elsie. Better than _any_ Belgian detective could have done and _far_ better than Scotland Yard!" His tone in reference to that august institution was tinged with contempt. "And..." He paused. This was harder to admit. "And you chose well with Mr. Barrow. He _is_ the right man for the task. No one else could have done it, let alone with such ... skill. I think he may overestimate his own cleverness bytimes, but he is a survivor. As I know only too well," he added grimly. "He'll have taken precautions."

She squeezed his hand in acknowledgment of both his warm words for her and his guarded praise for Mr. Barrow. "We'll just have to hope for the best," she said, falling back on the fundamental reality of their situation.

He leaned over her and they exchanged several gentle, comforting kisses. And then he reached for the light again.

Engulfed in darkness they lay quietly side by side for a long moment.

"We could pray," he said.

 **The Prey and Precautions**

Thomas had assured the Carson with an intellectual confidence when he declared that Edna would take the lay of the land before acting. And he did believe she would be guided by caution under the roof of Downton Abbeyt, despite her apparent spontaneity on the pavement in Piccadilly and the platform at Durham. Here she was known.

But as he retired for the night, Thomas could not shake off a jumpiness that had him darting looks into dark corners. The incident in Durham kept assaulting his mind, resisting his efforts to put it away.

 _She almost killed me_!

 _But she didn't._

 _It was those blokes who saved me though. Not me._

That was true enough. In Durham he had just been lucky. At Downton he needed to take care of himself. And that meant doing something tonight. He wasn't so desperate that he would take up Mrs. Carson's suggestion that her husband spend the night in the same room with him. There _were_ limits to what Thomas would do for self-preservation.

But the threat existed. Edna might be able to gain access to the men's quarters by the door that separated the sexes. To do so she would have to steal the key from Miss Baxter's room. This was possible. Miss Baxter saw ill in few people and had not and could not be warned against Edna. For Edna this would add another layer of complication though. An easier option would be to come up the men's staircase. In the night she would not have to worry about meeting anyone.

But ... how would she ... _do_ it? Stab him in his sleep? That left far too much to chance. He might wake and disarm her. And, as Mr. Carson had pointed out, there would be no doubt that murder had been done and the risk of being identified as the culprit would be too high. She had to do something much more subtle. Even poisoning, though more discreet, would be problematic in the same way. Could she really hope to catch him unawares on the stairs? Or ... a glum thought from the perspective of one hoping to trap her ... she might do nothing and play the long game, looking for an opportunity down the road. That could become quite wearing on his nerves.

Well. She might _not_ try anything tonight, but he had to take precautions in any case and naturally he was not without ideas. From the pocket of his livery he pulled a roll of string he had brought up from the kitchen. It came from Mrs. Patmore's supply and no doubt she would miss it and raise hell over it, but that was the least of Thomas's concerns. Alone in his room now he tied one end to the door handle and, once he'd undressed and gotten into bed, the other end to the ring finger on his left hand. If the door opened in the night the slight tug on it would be enough to waken him and then she would not take him by surprise.

That was the theory anyway.


	13. Chapter 13: The Calm Before the Storm

**CORNERING A KILLER**

 **Chapter 13 The Calm Before the Storm**

 **At Breakfast**

The Carsons occasionally ate breakfast alone together at the cottage. He had come to prefer it that way, though he accepted the necessity of presiding over the servants' table _most_ of the time. She was more ambivalent. In the past an early morning at the Abbey had allowed her to get some work done before breakfast. These days she appreciated more than ever not having to prepare the food. _This_ Saturday morning, however, they were both determined to be on hand. That there were guests in the house gave them a formal reason. But neither wanted to forego a moment of oversight when Edna was around.

"I hope the special food requirements aren't too much of a burden for you," Carson said to Mrs. Patmore as she delivered a plate of sausages to the table.

"I've fed the Sinderbys before," Mrs. Patmore replied, not at all perturbed.

"Mind you get his tea right," said Lord Sinderby's valet. "He has his own blend."

"I know," Mrs. Patmore said acridly. "You mentioned it yesterday."

"If it isn't brewed just right, it will be hell on earth for all concerned."

Mrs. Patmore might have responded with a more cutting remark, but was distracted by the Edgerton's valet who was putting away copious amounts of eggs and sausage and toast and... "I'd rather pay his board than feed him," she murmured, to no one in particular and without much of an effort at muting her words. Mrs. Carson cast a reproving look her way, but Mrs. Patmore only smiled impudently in response before retiring to the kitchen.

The housekeeper turned her attention to the man beside her. "You look tired, Mr. Barrow." He did. And she didn't wonder. The Carsons had had each other for comfort and had managed to sleep at last. But they had not had to worry for their own security. Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Carson saw Edna Braithwaite go very still at these words, though her gaze remained fixed on the food before her. It was a tricky business trying to decide whether or not to acknowledge or play up Mr. Barrow's vulnerability, but they had all concluded that they must behave in ways that might induce Edna to act.

"I'm all right," Barrow said curtly. He had slept fitfully, roused to consciousness at frequent intervals by some internal conviction that the string on his finger had tightened. Every time he had found himself alone in the darkness of his room and struggled to sleep again.

A bell rang and Anna immediately got up. "That's Lady Mary," she said superfluously.

The Carsons glanced at each other. Lady Mary had wanted to do her part. Keeping Anna occupied and out of the way had seemed an appropriate task.

Mr. Carson sought out the underbutler. "Mr. Barrow, I want you to make Lord Sinderby your particular concern this weekend. We want _all_ our guests to leave Downton believing they have been attended to with care."

Barrow gave a stiff nod but he was not at all pleased. Sinderby was never satisfied with anything and Barrow had had the displeasure of falling afoul of him - inadvertently - more than once.

"And don't forget that there's the wine to shelve this morning. I expect that will keep you occupied until lunch."

" _Yes,_ Mr. Carson."

When Mr. Carson stood up everyone else at the table stood with him, the meal at an end. Once more the butler's gaze fell on his immediate subordinate. "I've set aside the morning papers for you, Mr. Barrow. They're on my desk. You might give them a look through, see if you find anything interesting." Then the butler's eyes swept the table. "There is much to do this morning. Let us begin." He turned away abruptly, more to avoid any possibility of an exchange with Edna Braithwaite than anything else, and busied himself with the diary for the day.

The Sinderby's valet caught Barrow's eye. "He's not half kicking you out the door, is he?"

Barrow gave him a cold look. "That's his idea of being helpful," he said with a sarcastic tone. In other circumstances he might have responded that Mr. Carson was several cuts above the Sinderbys' butler, Mr. Stowell, but in the moment he could not with honesty say that.

The Edgerton's valet had also paused. "What does an underbutler do, anyway?"

"Everything a butler wants to avoid it looks like," the Sinderby valet quipped. Perhaps he felt he was pushing Barrow too far with that for he quickly disappeared up the passage.

Mrs. Carson affected to have some interest in the house diary and so went to stand close by her husband.

"You're keeping him busy," she murmured.

"We're _all_ busy," he replied, as quietly. "I am trying to create opportunities. The stairs to the wine cellar are deep and made of stone. Prime conditions for an _accident_." He glanced over his shoulder, but the room had cleared but for the kitchen staff clearing the table. Now he met his wife's gaze. "And we'll know where he is this morning, at least. It'll be easier to keep an eye on that door."

"You didn't have to saddle him with Lord Sinderby."

"We still have a job to do and who else am I going to saddle with him? Molesley?"

He had a point.

"Where is _she_ anyway?" he asked, speaking _sotto voce_.

"Upstairs for a while. Attending to Lady Edgerton."

"In the cold hard light of day, I'm wondering what we're trying to do," he said, his eyes reflecting the apprehensions that had made sleep difficult for her hours before. "I'll do what I can this morning, but I've got to be upstairs most of the time."

They were agreed on the difficulty of the situation. "I'll keep watch."

 **The Morning Unfolds**

After supervising the clearing up of breakfast upstairs, Barrow descended to the servants' floor once more and unexpectedly put his head in the housekeeper's door.

"I'll be in the wine cellar," he announced, jangling the key as he spoke.

"You _are_ tired," she said again and this did worry her.

He shrugged and made to go.

"Thomas." It slipped out, the familiar address, and showed the strain she felt, too, for the hierarchy of the downstairs was as clearly etched in her mind as in that of her husband who more conscientiously adhered to formal social structures.

It was this lapse into familiarity that made him pause and he waited for her to speak.

"Mr. Carson isn't quite as heartless as he comes across," she said. She'd winced at her husband's artless remarks with regard to the underbutler's employment prospects at the breakfast table. She might have said more on the subject, but this wasn't the time. Only she wanted to give Mr. Barrow a little encouragement. He was putting his life on the line here and deserved some assurance in the bargain.

Not surprisingly, he was unconvinced. "Really."

With a bit of a sigh, Mrs. Carson watched him go. Her eyes dropped to the accounting ledger before her on the desk, but her mind was still with Mr. Barrow. Ordinarily she sat with her back to the door of her office, the better to ignore the mundane goings-on of a morning at Downton, but in anticipation of this weekend, she had shifted things about a bit, so that movement in the passage might reside within her peripheral vision. Her wisdom in doing so was vindicated only a moment later as a shadow just beyond her door caught her eye. There was something _not_ there as well - sound. Whatever - _whoever_ \- had flitted by had done so without the usual tell-tale sounds.

She got to her feet and poked her head into the corridor in time to see Edna Braithwaite disappearing at the end of the passage.

Elsie's heart thumped in her chest and suddenly she found herself breathing hard. _Was this it?_ Was Edna about to take the opportunity created by Thomas's descent into the wine cellar to make an attempt on his life? It _was_ a prime location for a nefarious act, accessible from a side passage off the kitchen which led to the larder off one side and the cellar off the other, with the coal bin door at the end. It was possible to slip in and out of it without notice and the thick stone walls of the cellar itself, a remnant from the ancient days of the pre-Reformation era when the Abbey had served the Church, muffled any sound. Furthermore, no one but Mr. Carson and Mr. Barrow had any business there and so interruptions were unlikely.

 _What was she supposed to do?_

It took all the self-possession in her nature to keep from dashing down the passage. Instead she moved with a deliberate calm, emulating the lady's maid in her stealth. She'd had occasion to want to move as quietly as a cat herself and knew that it could be done, even in work shoes and on the stone surface of the corridor.

And then she heard voices in the kitchen and relief swept over her. That was Edna and she was speaking to Daisy. Had her chance at Mr. Barrow been inadvertently thwarted?

Elsie paused only so long as it took to restore her breathing and then crept forward until she stood just outside the kitchen. She knew the best spot to take for listening in on conversations there. She'd done it before.

"...still hard at it in the Downton kitchens, I see."

"I'm an assistant cook now." Daisy's words contained a justifiable measure of pride, as well they might. Though she still had to do much of the cleaning up and maintenance chores that had fallen to a kitchen maid, her new position had at least given her more responsibilities, the opportunity occasionally to exercise control over a meal, and six shillings more a week, which was nothing to sneeze at.

Clearly Daisy had heard something critical in the lady's maid's tone and so countered with her own challenge. "You left here in a hurry. Just to be a lady's maid somewhere else? They're all the same."

"No," Edna said lightly. "Not quite. Some houses are more pleasant than others."

"You'll not find better conditions than at Downton," Daisy said emphatically. She did sometimes chafe under the unfairness of the _system_ , but there was much that was agreeable at Downton. "We all get on."

"Well...not _all_ of you. Look at poor Mr. Barrow."

"Why 'poor'?"

In her mind's eye, Elsie could see the look of bewilderment that would be on Daisy's face at Edna's remark.

" _He's_ not likely to be here much longer, is he? You can't be happy when you don't know when you'll be sacked."

"They'll not turn him out on his ear," Daisy said, though there was a little hesitation in her voice. She'd heard Mr. Carson's hard words, after all. "Not when he's been here that long," she added hopefully.

Edna Braithwaite snorted dismissively. "There's no loyalty to him upstairs and he's not popular downstairs, is he?"

"I wouldn't say that." But Daisy sounded uncertain now.

"I think he's close to the breaking point," Edna went on. "I've only been here a day and I can see he's not at all himself."

"Well, he has been edgy recently," Daisy admitted.

"That's just what I said. How much of that can a man take, I wonder."

Elsie rolled her eyes at this. Mr. Barrow was far more resilient than Edna gave him credit for. But she could see what the woman was doing here, sowing seeds of doubt about the underbutler's mental health. Suicide - or a death that looked like suicide - would strike others as believable if they'd already been primed for it.

She was distracted by footsteps behind her, coming down the stairs two at a time, and she moved swiftly into the boot room so as to avoid having to greet and be greeted by Master George Crawley. Though he only ever came downstairs in search of Mr. Barrow, Master George was, like his father before him, unfailingly polite and he would have given away her presence.

"Good morning, Miss Daisy!" he said brightly as he burst into the kitchen. Then there was a pause. He didn't know Edna Braithwaite.

"Good morning, Master George!" There was an unfamiliar sing-song quality in Daisy's response. The fair-haired little boy with a sunny disposition brought out the best in all of them, not only in the underbutler.

"I suppose you're looking for Mr. Barrow," Daisy said. It wasn't a real question. "He's in the wine cellar."

"Thank you!" The little boy went tripping away to the back passage.

"Isn't that Lady Mary's son?" For the first time possibly in their acquaintance, Elsie heard surprise in Edna's voice.

"Yes."

"What's he doing down here?"

"He likes to visit in the kitchen," Daisy said. "But Mr. Barrow is his particular friend."

"Mr. Barrow?" Surprise shifted to astonishment.

"Mr. Barrow plays with him," Daisy explained. "They have grand long walks and talks. And Mr. Barrow is teaching him how to play cricket out on the lawn, when it's nice."

Though Edna said nothing, Daisy was prompted to add, "It's not that strange. Lady Mary was Mr. Carson's pet. Master George is Mr. Barrow's." Daisy conveyed this information with a casualness that bespoke the widespread acceptance of this upstairs-downstairs confluence between senior servants and upstairs children. Elsie recalled that she had not always been so supportive of this dynamic as it was manifested in the relationship between Mr. Carson and Lady Mary, thinking it an indulgence of an already indulged child. But over time she had come to appreciate how much the connection meant to both parties concerned. No one, Mr. Carson least of all, would begrudge a like friendship between Master George and Thomas Barrow.

Edna's next words shattered Elsie's nostalgic reverie.

"I can't see how two men with no kindness in them could draw children," Edna said waspishly. "I didn't think Mr. Barrow cared for anyone."

"Well, he cares for Master George," Daisy said with an air of finality.

The rattle of the child's footsteps interrupted them again and Master George erupted into the kitchen once more.

"What? Did you not find him?"

"Mr. Barrow can't come out and play Saint George and the Dragon," Master George declared, obviously disappointed.

"How about a biscuit instead?"

"Yes, please!"

"Do you play with Mr. Barrow often?"

To anyone else this might have seemed an innocuous and natural question to pose to the boy, but Elsie heard something sinister in every utterance of Edna's.

"He's my best friend!" Master George declared.

"Isn't that lovely. Well, I must get on. Lady Edgerton likes to change for lunch."

An eavesdropper had to be nimble. As Edna Braithwaite moved into the passage, this time without trying to do so silently, Elsie made to stride by her into the kitchen. She nodded in passing to the lady's maid and then said, more stridently than she would normally have done, "Is Mrs. Patmore not back _yet_?"

She only half-listened to Daisy's response. Relief had flooded her. Mr. Barrow would be in the wine cellar until he had to attend at lunch and in the meantime Edna Braithwaite was on her way upstairs. For the moment she could breathe easily again.

 **In the Courtyard**

"I wish you'd told me she'd been in the kitchen _before_ I had my lunch," Mr. Carson told his wife. "I'd have found some reason to skip the meal altogether."

It was early afternoon, the least hectic time of day for the servants, and they were standing in the yard. There they could see all about them and ensure that they were not being overheard. There was no secure place within the house.

"You couldn't do that," she said. It was important that the staff, especially the male staff, were properly fed. There was nothing so gauche as the sound of a growling stomach at a formal meal upstairs and nothing so unforgivable as that the sound might emanate from a hungry servant.

"Are you considering the poison possibility now then?" she asked, a little acerbically. He'd dismissed it as too dangerous when she'd raised it.

"As you said, the reality of her being right here puts a different perspective on things," he conceded.

"Mmm. Where is _he_ now?"

"Making sure that all the silver is properly polished for the grand dinner tonight. Where is _she_?"

"Upstairs. Allegedly attending to Lady Edgerton's evening dress. I'm about to go up and make sure of that." She told him of the morning's events. "Nothing came of it and I was _still_ trembling for several minutes after I returned to my office. I can't imagine how Mr. Barrow is coping with the constant threat." She crossed her arms and ran her hands up and down as though chilled. "What a weekend."

"Let us hope that she acts, we catch her, Mr. Barrow survives, and we can all go back to our normal lives," he said rapidly, under his breath, and then added, "I'm not an adventurer, you know."

She laughed aloud. He imparted this last confidence as though it might come as a shock to her. Of course it was no such thing. The last thing anyone would call her Mr. Carson was _an adventurer_. "Oh my," she gasped, trying to contain herself.

He frowned at her levity. She was quick to laugh at what she regarded as his pomposity. It had always been thus. But this was hardly an appropriate moment to indulge in it. He stood stiffly, helpless before her mirth as was also always the case. And then, his best defense, he ignored her, his eyes shifting uneasily along the row of windows on the gallery.

"We'd best go in. We've no business out here and it might look suspicious were she to look out and see us conferring."

It was true enough that the butler and the housekeeper had no reason to seek any privacy more absolute than that which they might find in their respective offices. But they were no longer _just_ the butler and the housekeeper of Downton Abbey.

Impulsively Elsie reached up and kissed her husband.

His eyes went wide in shock and his over-developed sense of propriety had him blustering the second her lips ceased to press against his. But she only smiled mischievously and said, "Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Carson have business that _must_ be addressed beyond the walls of Downton Abbey."

Despite himself, he returned her smile. She had a way with her, his Elsie did.

 **The Wrong Door**

Mrs. Carson strode along the gallery with a confident air. This was her domain and she could without any hesitation or need for excuses ensure that Edna Braithwaite was where she said she'd be. At this time of day it was unusual to find any of the family or their guests in their rooms and so the doors were all open. Privacy and service did not coexist for either servants or the family.

So she marched purposefully into the room occupied by the Edgertons - it was Herbert - and looked around, prepared to offer, if challenged, that old standby of about checking up on the maids' work. *****

But the room was empty. Edna Braithwaite was _not_ where she had said she'd be.

This was a puzzlement. Edna wasn't downstairs. Nor would she be on the main floor. And Mrs. Carson had not passed her on the stairs. Perhaps she had gone upstairs to her own room. Well, that was easy enough to verify.

Mrs. Carson had hardly started up the flight of the servants' stairs when she heard a door closing above. She hurried on and on the landing where the stairs divided so as to give separate access to the men's and women's quarters, she met Edna, who looked surprised to see her, though she quickly recovered her poise.

"Mrs. Carson." Edna had easily adjusted to the housekeeper's change of status. She would. People who were up to no good were in the business of adapting quickly to changed circumstances so as not to draw undue attention to themselves.

Mrs. Carson herself hesitated. There was something awkward about the way Edna stood, as though she had in haste re-positioned herself. It was as if she were trying to disguise the direction from which she had come. It took some presence of mind on Mrs. Carson's part not to glance at the men's staircase from which, she was now certain, Edna had just emerged.

"Miss Braithwaite."

"I didn't expect to see you up here," Edna said with admirable aplomb. "I thought you lived out."

It was this boldness of manner that had put Mrs. Carson off long before Edna had given any real cause for concern. "I am the housekeeper, Miss Braithwaite," she said evenly. "And when we have guests, upstairs and down, I am responsible for their comfort. How are your accommodations?"

"Entirely satisfactory," Edna said, her eyes boring steadily into the housekeeper's. Edna knew the value of an imperturbable facade.

Mrs. Carson was pondering whether or not she ought to challenge Edna on where she had been when the lady's maid spoke first.

"Mr. Barrow came to visit me recently," she announced. "Did you know that?"

For a fleeting moment, Mrs. Carson thought the game was up. But she had learned to keep her own counsel until the other side showed their hand. "I beg your pardon?"

Edna took a step closer and Mrs. Carson had consciously to remain where she was, though it was an effort. The stairs were uncomfortably close by.

"At Cross Harbour. The Edgertons' estate."

Mrs. Carson breathed again. That Edna felt she had to identify her place of work was an assurance that she believed the housekeeper would never have heard of it. "He was looking for a position."

"Was he now."

"He gave me to believe that his position at Downton was not secure and from what Mr. Carson said this morning, it seems he may have been right." She paused. "He pleaded with me to help him. He seemed quite depressed."

"Indeed." Mrs. Carson could hardly get the word out for wanting to spit at Edna. _The bare-faced liar._ "Well. I'm sure Mr. Barrow can handle his own affairs."

"I thought you should know," Edna went on, in a manner of _faux_ solicitousness. "You were always one to look out for the staff." Before the housekeeper could respond to that, Edna slipped by her and headed downstairs.

 _Now she's playing her games on me_! Alone now, Mrs. Carson allowed herself a snort of exasperation. She would have to go down herself to keep an eye on things. But in the moment she swallowed her anger and considered. At the top of the men's staircase there were three doors - one to the attic proper, one to a stairwell leading up to the roof, and the third to the men's rooms. The first two were always locked, the last never. Edna must have been scouting out Mr. Barrow's room.

She would know now where it was and how it was set up so that she might better navigate it in the dark. Mr. Barrow wouldn't be up here again until bed-time, but he would be here all night. Edna hadn't had time for this reconnaissance work last night, but tonight she would be prepared. And so must they be.

 **Ultimatum**

"What if someone sees him?" The question was Barrow's and his tone was alarmed, almost belligerent.

It has been on the tip of Mr. Carson's tongue to ask _What if someone sees me?_ , but Barrow had preempted him and he recoiled indignantly. "What do you mean by _that?"_ he demanded of the underbutler. "What've _you_ to worry about?"

Mrs. Carson had provoked the exchange by more vigorously repeating her suggestion of the previous night, that her husband spend the night in Barrow's room. Their reactions were predictable, but tonight she had no time for them.

The three of them were locked in the butler's pantry and it was past eleven. Everyone else had gone up. Despite this, they were crowded together around Mr. Carson's desk, standing this time, and whispering, albeit in a rather animated fashion.

"She's been upstairs," Mrs. Carson said emphatically. "In the men's quarters." She'd told them this already, but still they balked at her concerns for security. "She's most likely to strike during the night and she's only the one night left. And now she's got the lay of the land."

Barrow opened his mouth again but Mrs. Carson cut him off. "Our purpose, you may remember Mr. Barrow, is to catch her in the act. We can hardly do so if we're tucked up in our cottage."

Barrow was deflected in the moment by an image of the Carsons in their cozy cottage and Mr. Carson seized his opportunity to speak.

"I don't like it!" he declared.

His wife turned on him with some exasperation. "I don't like it either," she snapped. "We're dealing with a killer who has no scruples. Well, as if any killer does," she added as an aside. "So long as she's at liberty, anyone who crosses her is at risk. We are pledged to put an end to that." She whirled on Barrow once more. "I'll not have your blood on my conscience, Mr. Barrow," she said grimly. "Either you accept Mr. Carson's oversight tonight, or you will have mine!"

She ignored her husband's outraged rumblings, instead fixing Mr. Barrow with a cool blue stare. His lower lip protruded in that surly manner he adopted when thwarted by someone to whom he was obliged to defer. After a long moment, his dropped his gaze from hers, looking away in defeat.

"Could you please leave us, Mr. Barrow?" The calm civility of her tone was a contrast to the boldness of her ultimatum. "We won't be long."

He left.

And as the door closed after him, Mrs. Carson turned again to her husband.

"I will _not_..."

"Charlie."

His outburst was arrested mid-sentence by the disarming appeal in her voice.

"Edna has been making plans," she went on, not bothering to conceal a note of desperation. Edna had as yet made no attempt on Barrow at Downton, but Mrs. Carson had not yet recovered from the apprehension that had gripped her when the woman's shadow had crossed her doorway earlier in the day. They _must_ , these men, come to grips with the reality of the danger that encompassed them. "And she doesn't have much time," she added. "We can't ignore the next seven hours because it may be inconvenient for us. We must be _more_ , not _less_ , vigilant."

He knew it to be the truth. She could see this in his eyes, though his resignation was clouded in a deep unhappiness. She reached out for his hands and the scowl on his face diminished somewhat.

"The _cheek_ of him!" he said, glowering at the door through which Barrow had just disappeared. "Concerned what others might think of _him_ should I be spotted going into or coming out of his room! I'm the one who would suffer from that!"

His gaze settled on her and she could see his unease.

"How will we explain it?" he demanded.

But she only shook her head. "Be discreet and we won't have to." He rolled his eyes, but she went on. "And if someone _does_ see you, then we'll explain later. It will make sense when we can say what we were up to."

"But there are two strange men upstairs!" he protested. "And there's no guarantee that she'll act, and if she doesn't we won't be able to explain because we'll expose our scheme."

Mrs. Carson sighed a little. "I don't have the answers," she admitted. "I only know that we can't take a chance. Not with Mr. Barrow's life. You know that."

It seemed he did, for his shoulders slumped. He had given up. Then his eyes came up to hers again and he spoke in a controlled calm. "Just at what point do I intercede, should Edna come calling tonight? When she raises her hand with the dagger in it or after she's plunged it in?"

His graphic reference elicited a frown of disapproval from her, but she responded without reproof. "It's a decision you'll have to make in the moment."

Neither of them drew any satisfaction from that. But they were not wholly without resources for comfort. In the same instant they moved together, arms entwining about the other, she pressing a cheek into his chest, he burying his face in her hair.

"I'll miss you," he said softly.

"No more than I will you."

 ***A/N.** There is a "Herbert" room in Highclere Castle. Herbert is the family name of the Carnarvons.


	14. Chapter 14: The Forgotten Achilles' Heel

**CORNERING A KILLER**

 **Chapter 14 The Overlooked Achilles' Heel**

 **The Morning After**

"Ohhhhh!"

Though Mr. Carson thought of himself as unrivalled in his professional demeanour, there were few at Downton Abbey who could not read his temper from the look on his face. It was his wife whose imperturbability left them all wondering. But there was no doubting the relief that swept over her as her eyes fell on her husband on Sunday morning.

She had come to the Abbey before dawn and was pacing the passage that led from the kitchen to the servants' staircase when the scullery maid descended to collect her bucket and get on about the business of lighting the house fires for the morning. The girl did not question the housekeeper as to why she was haunting the Abbey at this hour, only nodding politely and scurrying off. This was just as well. In the moment, Mrs. Carson was so distracted that the girl's name completely slipped her mind.

It gave her more relief than she could have imagined that Mr. Carson was the next person down the stairs and at the sight of him, all rumpled and drawn, she abandoned all restraint and with a moan that voiced her pent-up anxiety, flung herself at him as he reached the bottom stair.

It was a measure of his exhaustion that he did not pull away. Instead he patted her back in a comforting way and guided her down the passage to the butler's pantry. Cloistered behind those doors, he folded her in his arms. And so they stood for a long moment.

And then she pulled away and looked into his face, reaching up to caress his rough cheek. He had not, of course, had an opportunity to shave. He met her gaze and answered the question in her eyes with a glum shake of his head.

"Nothing happened," he said, with a resigned shrug.

He was so tired he could hardly stand. She could see it plainly in his face, in his whole bearing. He'd stayed up whole nights before, but they always took it out of him. And he was getting a bit old for that sort of thing. And he was her husband now and she could make more of a fuss over him for it.

"Sit down." She guided him to his chair and that he did not resist in the least only confirmed the state of him.

"I'll make you some coffee," she said. Mrs. Patmore didn't like anyone fussing in the kitchen, but to hell with that.

"Elsie?"

She turned back at the door.

His frustration was plain to see. "I don't know what we're doing," he said. "What we thought we were doing."

"I'll get you some coffee and then we can discuss it."

She assumed that "nothing happened" meant that both he and Mr. Barrow had survived the night and Mr. Carson confirmed this for her as they took a few minutes, before beginning their official day, to get caught up.

In response to her explicit query, Mr. Carson snapped. "Of course _he's_ all right." And then had the wherewithal to be contrite. "Beg pardon, love. I spent a night - the most uncomfortable night of my _life_ \- in ... with ..." He dropped his voice. "In Mr. Barrow's room." He glanced apprehensively at the pantry doors, though both were firmly closed. "Neither of us slept at all. And _nothing happened_."

Mrs. Carson was perplexed and perturbed. Edna Braithwaite, it seemed, was not about to be caught up in anything so clumsily arranged as their awkwardly laid plot. She _was_ a clever one. It would not end this weekend and they would have to start all over and with less chance of success.

"Why didn't either of you sleep?" she asked, looking for some topic that might yield a concrete response.

"He's only got a hard upright chair in his room...," Mr. Carson shuddered and his wife knew it was just the idea of having been _in_ Thomas's room that brought it on, "...and I couldn't get comfortable."

"Why didn't you take turns sleeping in the bed?" It was a foolish question from all sorts of perspectives, and she knew it as soon as the words were out.

Mr. Carson drew himself up indignantly. "I'm not going to lie down in _his_ bed!" He shook himself as though casting off a soiled coat. "I might have been killed in his stead, had she come! Or been wounded. But I'd not have slept there for all the treasure in the Tower in _any_ circumstnace."

Well, he hadn't lost his overdrawn distaste for all things associated with Mr. Barrow.

"Why didn't _he_ sleep, then?"

"Well. He was rather tense," Mr. Carson admitted. "And understandably so. And ... I'm not quite sure he trusted me to stay awake, Elsie." He sighed and held out a hand to her and she, now seated in a chair next to his desk, eagerly took it up. "We've failed," he said flatly. " _And_ we've got a house party to manage today where both butler and underbutler will be hardly fit to be seen."

The problem of Edna might elude them, but a house party was a different ball of wax. The sleuth Mrs. Carson gave way to the housekeeper of Downton Abbey, who always knew what she was about. She straightened up.

"I've brought you a crisp shirt and your alternate livery," she said, pointing to where they were hanging by the far door. "And I brought your shaving kit as well. You can step into the washroom down here and take care of that. I've polished up your second best pair of shoes and have set out your other things over there." Her clear blue eyes roamed over him in a critical examination. "You'll clean up perfectly well. Well enough to see you through breakfast, anyway. And then, when they're all at church, you and Mr. Barrow can retire have a lie down - in _separate_ rooms upstairs..." She had seen him marshalling forces of resistance. "...with the doors locked against her - and each other - and that will be enough, must be enough, to carry you through the day."

Though he was tired and frustrated and more than a little irritable, he smiled through it all. "You're a wonder, Elsie. Where have you been all my life?"

She favoured him with an indulgent smile. "Right here, Charlie Carson. At your side. Always." And she leaned forward to kiss him. He might have lingered over this, but she pulled back. "Now, come on. Let's get you properly done up." She stretched out her fingers so that she might unbutton his vest.

"Elsie!" His great dark eyes were round with shock. "I have miraculously escaped the servants' quarters without anyone aware of the fact that I spent a night with ... in... Well, you know. I will _not_ be changing my clothes in the butler's pantry _with_ you here."

"We're married, Mr. Carson," she said, laughing at him a little.

"It's not right," he said resolutely.

She left him to it, then, and could only shake her head when she heard the lock clicking firmly into place behind her.

Alone in the passage for a moment, her mind returned to the great matter before them. Mr. Carson was right. They had failed. The Edgertons were taking the late train to Birmingham on Sunday night and their servants would go with them. Edna might act in broad daylight on a busy London street, but opportunities for accidental death at Downton were few enough by night, almost non-existent by day. They _would_ have to begin again and she didn't have a clue as to where they would start.

 **Barrow's Perspective**

The underbutler, when he appeared, was in no better shape than Mr. Carson. Oh, he was a _much_ younger man and might be expected to weather the loss of a few hours' sleep more easily, but he'd had the added weight of being the _target_ for what action they might have anticipated.

And he'd had Mr. Carson in his room.

This was no small thing. The room of one in domestic service was not sacrosanct. The junior staff saw to the domestic needs of the senior staff. Hall boys routinely polished the butler's shoes. Maids made up the beds of those senior staff who desired it. So far as Barrow knew, Mr. Carson hadn't made his own bed in thirty years. As underbutler, Barrow himself might have claimed a few such benefits, but he did not want anyone in his room. And, on the other side, the butler and the housekeeper, in their respective domains, had the authority to enter any room in the servants' quarters, for any reason whatsoever. Mr. Carson had never acted on this authority. Indeed, Barrow couldn't even recall him darkening the door of this room, at least. So to have Mr. Carson _right there_ , ensconced in a chair only a few feet from the bed in which Barrow slept every night was unsettling indeed.

It was no surprise at all that Mr. Carson had taken the room's chair and situated it as far away from the bed as possible. Fortunately this conformed to their strategic needs, as this spot was also behind the door. But it had irked Barrow. After all, it was _his_ privacy that had been invaded, not Mr. Carson's. And Barrow stood by the discomfort he had vocalized at Mrs. Carson's suggestion earlier in the evening: he had his own reputation to think of when it came to suspicions about why Mr. Carson was there.

And then it had all been in vain. Edna had _not_ acted. Barrow had underestimated her. And would have to live with the Damoclean sword of Edna's vengeful nature hanging over him now for an indeterminate length of time.

And on top of it all, there was still another twenty-four hours of house party to go. Edna and the Edgertons were leaving Sunday evening, but the Sinderbys were lingering on into tomorrow. And still Barrow could not let his guard down, though like Mrs. Carson he doubted Edna would act now. She had scoped out the territory for future opportunities. So long as she made her monthly payments, she could afford to bide her time.

The day was going to be interminable.

 **Barrow Alarmed**

Barrow did not like Lord Sinderby. Who did? It was one of the most irritating things in life that disagreeable men like Sinderby - and less disagreeable but still undeserving men like Mr. Carson - were married to very nice women. Sinderby even had a lovely young mistress. Barrow couldn't fathom it.

And when something went wrong - for either of these men - those around them felt the heat of their ire. Barrow had known Mr. Carson's wrath on occasion and experienced Lord Sinderby's everyday abrasiveness as well as his anger. The underbutler had skillfully turned the tables on the latter man and enjoyed doing so. He'd hoped, rather than believed, that Sinderby might behave better as a guest at Downton than he did in his own home, but this was not to be.

They'd all taken great care - Mrs. Patmore and Daisy with his food and drink, and Barrow with its delivery - so that everything was exactly as the demanding man would have it. And things had gone smoothly this weekend up to this moment. And then, at the late afternoon gathering, Sinderby sipped his tea and all but spat it onto the floor of the Library.

"What is this muck!" he demanded, a glower descending on his features as he clattered the tea cup onto its saucer and thrust the offending thing away from himself. "This isn't my blend!"

The Edgertons did not seem disturbed by this outburst. Friends of the Sinderbys, they had no doubt witnessed such scenes before. The Crawleys were not unfamiliar with the man's rudeness either but although none of them were impressed with his temper, they held their own counsel.

"Carson?" Lady Grantham said delicately.

Carson had already advanced at Lord Sinderby's explosion, but at Her Ladyship's word, he glanced in the direction of the underbutler. "Mr. Barrow?" He spoke so quietly that only those listening for his words would have heard him, but there was no mistaking the tone nonetheless.

Barrow ignored the butler's glare and his withering tone. Yes, it _was_ his responsibility to see that all was right for Lord Sinderby but he had been _meticulous_ in ensuring that everything was just so. Somehow something had gone wrong. In the moment, however, his conscientiousness did not matter, for something _was_ wrong. Barrow hastened forward and held out a hand to catch the cup and saucer Lord Sinderby shoved at him.

"Get it right this time, you bloody fool."

Barrow had been steeling himself all weekend for an outburst of abuse, but the words electrified the room. The underbutler was marginally gratified to see Mr. Carson's glacial stare shift to their guest. He was too much a master of his own behaviour to let loose, but his overall demeanour reflected his deep disapproval of the way Barrow had been addressed.

It did not, however, take much of an edge off the rebuke for Barrow who was glad enough to hurry off to the kitchen, however briefly. He charged down the stairs, not caring whether he spilled any of the tea - although he didn't, because he was practiced at this - wondering how this mistake had occurred. He'd checked with Daisy as she was preparing it. Then he'd dashed upstairs briefly to coordinate timing with Mr. Carson and come down with the footmen to collect the tea and cake.

Daisy was in the kitchen when he stormed in and almost slammed the tea cup down on the worktable. "It's the wrong bloody tea!" he snapped.

The assistant cook was understandably taken aback at this, but she stood her ground. "No it isn't."

Before he could tell her otherwise, another voice came from behind him.

"It certainly is _not_ the wrong tea!" Mrs. Patmore declared. "And I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head in _my_ kitchen, Mr. Barrow!" It happened that the only person who did not have to comply with that rule was Mrs. Patmore herself and she seemed prepared to prove it.

Barrow took a deep breath, pausing to call on the reserves of self-control that he had developed over the years. "He says it is," he said more quietly. "And he about threw it at me."

Perhaps Mrs. Patmore recalled that they were talking about Lord Sinderby after all. "We've got the tea right here," she said, moderating her own voice, and pointing to a tin.

"That's what I used," Daisy reiterated "I made it up right."

"Well,... we'll figure it out later," Mrs. Patmore said, "and I'm not blaming you, Daisy. It's been a little hectic down here as well, with all these people in and about. I'll put another kettle on, Mr. Barrow, and we'll make it up again."

"I'll do it," Daisy declared, taking the kettle from the cook.

Mrs. Patmore looked as though she might like to manage this herself this time, but she'd been trying to relax her complete control of the kitchen in favour of her assistant cook. So she relinquished the responsibility and retired to the larder from whence she had come.

"I did it right," Daisy said again, almost but not quite under her breath and casting a reproachful look at Barrow.

He didn't see how that could be, but in the warmer environs of the kitchen he could acknowledge to himself that his own temper had been ignited by the scene upstairs. It was just a cup of tea, after all. So he nodded to Daisy and said, "All right."

There was a pause.

"I've a message for you," Daisy said at length and in her regular voice once more.

Barrow looked up sharply. The incident in the library had driven from his mind the larger concerns of this weekend. "Go on."

"From Master George," Daisy said. "I told him you were busy and couldn't do it, but he _insisted_ I tell you when you came down. I said you wouldn't be down until after tea and even then..."

"What is it?"

"He asked if you wouldn't come along and join them in their game."

That was cryptic. "What game? Why was he even down here at this time of day? Wait a minute." His brain was swirling with the details. "Who's _them_?" This was bewildering from every angle.

"What are you talking about?" All the aggravation stirred by the tea mix-up came to the surface again.

Daisy gave him a baleful look. "Master George and Miss Braithwaite, of course."

If Barrow had still been holding the tea cup he would have dropped it. "What?! What's she to do with him?" He was almost shouting.

"You're not his only friend, you know," Daisy responded. "After you brushed him off yesterday, Miss Braithwaite got him a biscuit and made a fuss over him. And then she took him back up to the nursery. She said she were fond of children, but that they weren't any at Cross Harbour and..."

"What game?" he demanded. "Where are they?" He was seized with a panic he had not known since the trenches. He could see Daisy thought him a little mad, but he didn't care. " _Where?"_

"Mr. Barrow!" It was Mrs. Patmore again. "You're shouting in my..."

" _WHERE?"_ He would have Daisy by the throat in a minute.

"The attic," Daisy said. "They were playing hide and..."

Barrow turned and ran. Edna was playing a game all right, but it was nothing so innocent as hide-and-seek. _Master George_! Why hadn't they thought of that, in all their ruminations? He ran pell mell down the corridor, not even hearing Mrs. Carson calling after him.

 **Mrs. Carson Alarmed**

Daisy and Mrs. Patmore didn't have time to ask each other what had possessed Mr. Barrow before the housekeeper descended as precipitously as the underbutler had departed from them.

"What has happened? Why is Mr. Barrow running?"

Had either of them ever seen Mrs. Carson so distraught?

"He came in to fetch Lord Sinderby's tea," Mrs. Patmore replied.

"Then I told him Master George wanted him to come and play hide-and-seek in the attic with him and Miss Braithwaite and..."

" _What?_ " Mrs. Carson blanched as Barrow had done only seconds ago. "Miss Braithwaite with Master George?' She turned on her heel and tore down the passage after Barrow.

 _Mr. Barrow. Miss Braithwaite. Master George!_ In the attic! She couldn't put the pieces together coherently - not consciously anyway, not in this grave moment - but innately she just _knew_. This was it.

She bolted up the stairs so single-mindedly that she almost collided with her husband as he stepped through the green baize door off the main floor.

"What...? Where's Mr. Barrow?" he demanded before she could gasp out a word. And then he saw the look on her face. "Elsie... What is it?"

"The roof!"

The terror she felt was suddenly mirrored in his eyes but there was confusion there, too.

"What?"

"Edna! Thomas! She's lured him to the roof! With Master George!"

Like her, he did not have to think that through. To her immense relief, the cares of the library that he had left behind him fell away in an instant and though the look on his face told her that he was as frightened as she was by the implications, he tore away from her and raced upwards.

She almost followed. She could have - possibly she should have - gone with him. But a different wave of urgency swept over her and instead she pushed her way through the green baize door and headed for the library. Master George was involved in this and Lady Mary had to know, no matter what the consequences to any of them.

In the seconds it took her to cross the Great Hall, her own words to Mr. Carson came clear in her mind. Daisy had said _the attic_. But she, and likely Mr. Barrow, too, had known intuitively that whatever Edna - or Master George on her prompting - had said, the roof was the point of danger. Had the boy said the _roof_ , Daisy and Mrs. Patmore would have been alarmed. But the attic was within bounds. The doors to each were only a few feet apart at the top of the men's staircase. And there was repair work in progress on the battlements, though all would be quiet there today, on a Sunday. Oh, it was perfect for Edna's purposes!

Such was the critical nature of the moment that she did not hesitate on reaching the library door that Mr. Carson had carefully closed behind himself. Though she had never done it before, now she grasped the handle and pushed in uninvited.

She crossed the threshold into the room and at once all eyes turned to her. But she sought ought only one person. "My lady," she said, when her gaze fell on Lady Mary.

She saw an expression of consternation on Lord Grantham's face and in any other circumstances she might have acknowledged his right to look so. His underbutler had disappeared, his butler had vanished. He might be wondering if some great plague had swept through the downstairs, taking with it most of the servants. And now his housekeeper had broken one of the most conventional of rules.

But it was Lady Mary who reacted. She pressed a reassuring hand to her father's arm and then strode toward Mrs. Carson and the library door. Lady Mary was the only person upstairs who knew what they were about and though she hardly looked pleased at this unprecedented interruption, there would be no need to explain to her.

Mrs. Carson stepped backwards into the hall and Lady Mary followed her, Andrew stepping forward swiftly to close the door behind them from within.

"What is it?" Lady Mary wasted no words.

"Mr. Barrow's gone up to the roof after Miss Braithwaite," Mrs. Carson said. "We can't be sure, my lady, but ... Master George may be with her."

"Oh, my God!"

The pieces were settling fast for Mrs. Carson. "He is the best lure for Mr. Barrow," she said, realizing as she spoke the words that _of course_ this was so. Why hadn't it occurred to them?

 **On the Roof**

Barrow took the steps to the roof three at a time. At the top of the stairs leading to the men's quarters, he ignored the doors to the rooms and to the attic proper and threw himself at the one leading up to the roof. It was always locked, but now it stood ajar and there, on the second step, was a small shoe. One of Master George's. Fear - not for himself, but for the small boy who was his only real friend at Downton Abbey - convulsed Barrow and he propelled himself up the narrow line of steps, howling madly as he did so. It did not matter that she would hear him. He wanted her to hear him and to know that he was coming. He wanted her to hesitate before she did anything to Master George.

 _How dare she!_ Barrow knew that Edna Braithwaite had no scruples. He knew that she revelled in the exploitation of the weak. But Master George was a child!

The door at the top of the steps was partly open, but not enough for Barrow to see anything of consequence beyond it. He crashed into it, flinging it wide open so that it clanged into the wall adjacent and bounced back. He slipped out of its way and burst onto the flat square of the roof, his gaze racing about wildly, trying to find her. _Them_.

Barrow knew all about the roof. The servants were not permitted up here. There was too much potential for mischief in Mr. Carson's view. Mr. Carson anticipated so many ways that a servant might fall astray that someone not well acquainted with him might have thought he must have had a particularly dissolute youth. Barrow dismissed that possibility. No. The butler was a Puritan - squeaky clean in his behaviour, but apparently so acutely attuned to the dark recesses of his own psyche that he saw licentiousness in every corner.

Of course Barrow had been on the roof often, at least in part just to flout Mr. Carson's unreasonable directives, but also because it offered solitude in a world where there was little to be had and it was a convenient place to smoke. He had met other rule-breakers up here, Edna Braithwaite among them.

There had been traffic up here recently. The fact of the matter was that the stone and mortar of Downton Abbey might look solid and sturdy at a glance, but it was almost always in need of repair in one place or another. The outside roof and walls, and the ceilings of the great rooms within were great drains on His Lordship's pocketbook.

This time it was a section of the perimeter wall on the east side. There were, fortunately, no doors opening on this side of the house for crumbling stone to collapse upon an unsuspecting visitor. Such work was beyond the expertise of the estate men and His Lordship had employed a firm of masons from York, who came highly recommended by the Archbishop as a result of their work on York Cathedral. They had torn out the disintegrating section and done some preliminary reinforcement work, but had to leave off until the the stone could be cut. Mr. Carson had grumbled about their beginning a project without having the appropriate materials.

He had obviously not been up here to chart their progress or he'd have grumbled even more about the state in which they'd left the workspace. It was a hazardous wasteland of the stones they had removed, whole and broken, and crumbling mortar and tools. Perhaps they'd taken seriously Mr. Carson's assurances that no one came up here. They _had_ cordoned off the area with a flimsy rope, but that was the extent of their precautions. Barrow's frantic gaze went immediately to this area and he began picking his way toward it.

The roof was a nightmare of danger for a small boy, even at its best. The bulk of the parapets were too high for a child to see over and it would be just too tempting to scramble onto one of the wide stone depressions - made so for easy defense, though there had been no invasions or uprisings to speak of since the Granthams had come into possession of the remnants of the Abbey and transformed it into the castle it now was. But of course the great gap where the repairs were in progress were the most dangerous spot. The rope, which had served as nothing but a warning in any case, was gone. Barrow didn't notice this, not consciously anyway, for his eyes were riveted on the two figures within the perimeter close by the gaping edge.

A yelp of fear died in his throat.

Edna had her back to him and stood almost bent over on the far side of the gap. All Barrow could see of George were his two outstretched arms, his hands clutched in Edna's. The cuffs of his starched white shirt were visible from the sleeves of his blue wool jumper. _They were standing right on the decaying edge of the battlements_!

Barrow pitched forward, scrambling through the debris, crying out incoherently as he went. Edna heard him, as he had hoped she would. She looked over her shoulder at him, her body still blocking him from a clear view of Master George. A wicked grin spread across her face as Barrow charged at her. He was perhaps only a dozen feet from her when suddenly she thrust her arms forward.

" _NO!"_ Tears stung his eyes, desperation clutched at his heart. He heard the anguish cries of his own voice.

Without conscious thought it was his impulse to throw himself prostrate on the roof's edge, hoping to catch a corner of Master George's clothing so as to haul him once more to safety. But before he could act, deliberately or not, he was falling and not of his own volition. His foot had caught on something and such was the momentum of his approach that he felt hard and flat on his face and his body skidded forward, his cheek scraping painfully in the rubble. And then he was looking over the line at the horrifying fragments on the lawn below. At the blue jumper and ... But there was something odd about the form that lay within it.

Even as he struggled to make sense of the scene so far below, other scraps of knowledge were pounding inside his brain.

He had thrown himself at the lip of the roof in a vain attempt to catch Master George.

 _No._ He hadn't had the chance to do so. He'd _tripped_.

And Edna had pulled back, out of his way. _Where was she_?

And then, as he lay on his chest, his arms splayed out uselessly in front of him grasping into the emptiness, his palms tingling painfully from sliding on the gravel, he felt surprisingly strong hands grip him by the waist of his trousers and the collar at the back of his neck and propel him forward.

 _She's trying to throw me off the roof_!

He was suddenly alive with resistance, his limbs flailing wildly, his hands scrabbling for something - anything, looking for some purchase that might stay his imminent death. He tried to grasp her ankle. If he was going down, so was she. But the angle was wrong, and she kicked his elbow, paralyzing it in the instant.

And then he was sliding face-first over the eroded edge.


End file.
